


Going In Deep

by Meretricious



Series: Acting The Part [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Acting, Adventure, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Lestrade, BAMF Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canonical Character Death, Case Fic, Danger, Declarations Of Love, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Masochism, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, First Kiss, First Time, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Humour, I'm Going to Hell, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Innuendo, Light BDSM, M/M, POV Harry Watson, POV John Watson, POV Multiple, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Content, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Sherlock-centric, Show Business, Swearing, Top John Watson, Topping from the Bottom, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock, Voice Kink, Voyeurism, sherlock swears in bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 59,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7725079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meretricious/pseuds/Meretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends asked for certain things missing from “His Last Vow”, like ‘Sherlock has a plan’. The stakes are high. It takes a villain or two to help Sherlock and John to understand and work out the problems and issues that are holding them back from having a romantic and sexual relationship. This is the completely written sequel to The Curtain Rises in which Mary is not nice, Harry helps and a new case will be solved.<br/> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <a href="http://s337.photobucket.com/user/kikaPics/media/Mobile%20Uploads/cover%20book%20for%20morton100%20twitter_zpsjergxnxs.jpg.html"></a><br/><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Land of the living

Chapter 1 The Land of the living

Monday 13th October

Silence had descended over 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had long gone to bed. In the concealing darkness of his bedroom John punched his pillow. He felt exhausted, yet sleep refused to come to release him from the thoughts buzzing in his brain about Sherlock. Sherlock was a handsome man, though not in a traditional way, John had recognised that for a long time, since the day they had met. Actually sexy in an ‘I want him’ sort of way was, relatively speaking, more recent.

How, John quizzed himself, had he got to where his imagination had slipped from his control like a grey-hound escaping its collar and gone racing off across a field after a rabbit.

 _Because you went away playing dead. It was safe to think about you that way._ All those little drips and drops of thoughts. Thoughts like spots of rain on a sunny day. They became a downpour. _A deluge. I never really got over you, did I. Loved Mary but I loved you first. That’s it isn’t it._

He could imagine telling Ella.

‘I had thoughts, daydreams, sometimes at night. It helped me to get off to sleep.’

No, he couldn’t imagine that scenario, except for Ella leaning forward sympathetically to tell him he was having a normal experience. He was grateful for the ear to talk to, but every visit only made him feel more alone, misunderstood and isolated. She meant well. She wouldn’t understand his fantasy about being loved by Sherlock Holmes. Receiving tender affection, sharing intimate and romantic moments. And having steaming-hot sex in every conceivable way, position and place possible as well.

He would make Sherlock aware that he was going to make him fall apart when he got him home. _You’ll have known that all night while you solve a case. Because you can read my thoughts, almost. I’ll have made you wait for it and you would tremble with emotion and you’ll let me see that, you’d let me see all of you, nothing hidden or kept back from me._

 

 _Christ, Sherlock would have a fit if he knew_. The pillow received another hefty thump.

_It’s okay, I know you care. I don’t expect more. Our friendship means more to me than you can possibly know. It’s enough. I’m not going to risk ruining that._

 

***

Tired to the marrow of his bones, but feeling virtuous for his abstinence, John returned to Aldermere hospital. Sherlock was still asleep at noon. John had cadged a spare pillow and it was lodged behind his back on the chair beside Sherlock’s austere, grey, metal bed. _So, how am I going to keep you from knowing how I feel? That’s not the problem, you know how I feel, I love you, you know that. How I feel about wanting a relationship that might involve ravishing you to within an inch of your sanity. That. You’re Sherlock Holmes, so, maybe you know already and it doesn’t matter to you because you know I wouldn’t force myself on you. Not unless you wanted that. And you don’t. So, it’ll be okay, we’ll be just like we were. Whatever the hell that was._

“Ten minutes.” Sherlock mumbled, his glassy eyes turned to the silent clock on the wall of his private room before he succumbed to the sedative again. John eased his cramped back in the blue and cream fabric-patterned vinyl chair at the side of the bed just as Greg Lestrade arrived on his daily, lunchtime visit.

“How is he?” Greg asked, concern greying his face.

“Much better. The fever and jaundice have been taken care of, he’s on antibiotics for the bacterial infection,” _And morphine for the pain_. John stood up, stretching his spine, “I need to nip out to make a phone call?” He tilted his head to the seat.

“He’s not said anything about who shot him, then?”

“He’s under sedation.” John deflected the question.

“Aha.” Greg nodded as he passed John going out and took the chair.

 ***

 _Look at the state of you._ John’s haggard reflection stared back at him from the lift’s mirrored walls. His wife, Mary, had shot his best friend and, in John’s estimation Sherlock had been reckless to exceed his limits while recovering from the operation to extract a bullet from his liver. It wasn’t that simple, though. The shades of grey feathered out like mould in a petri dish. He marched stiffly out to the concrete entrance steps and sat down, distracted, to dial his sister’s number.

“Harry. Hi, yeah. Listen, Sherlock was injured during an investigation. I’ll be at Baker Street after they let him out, maybe tomorrow.”

“Oh, crap, what happened? Is he okay?”

“He…just went back to work too soon after an injury, overdid it a bit.”

Harry’s voice rose in pitch. “Are you at a hospital?”

“Why?”

“He’s in a hospital, you’re with him, right?”

“Yes. Look, I have to go.” John ended the call not wanting to answer awkward questions that Harry might ask about the state of his marriage, he needed to be back at Sherlock’s bedside for when his best friend woke up.

 ***

Greg stood as John entered the room. “He said ‘ten minutes’ what’s that mean?”

“He’s timing how long he’s sleeping, I think. Fighting the sedative.”

“Ah, right, that figures.” Greg scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, duty calls. If he says anything, let me know.”

“Yes, of course.” _Not very likely_. John took his seat back as Greg sketched a wave and left.

Only the soporific beep of the I.V. drip flowing marked the passing of time as John buried his nose in a sea-faring novel which made him feel dozy. John took Sherlock’s wrist in his fingers and felt the reassuringly strong, steady beats of his friend’s heart.

The bedcover rustled as Sherlock’s feet moved, his eyes flickered open. “John.”

“Ah, you’re back in the land of the living.” John smiled. “You can go home.”

The detective, swathed in a white and blue patterned hospital gown, glanced at John’s hand covering his wrist. “Why didn’t you wake me up!” Attempting to sit up forced a stuttering groan past Sherlock’s lips.

“They’re putting you under my care.” John replied cheerfully, relinquishing his hold on his friend’s wrist.

“That’s…where’s Mary?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Where she usually is, I imagine. At the surgery. I don’t know.” John achieved something approaching seeming not to care.

“You don’t know?”

“No, I’m on leave. Taking what’s left of my holiday entitlement.” John corrected himself.

“Ah.” Sherlock pressed the button to raise the bed head, licking his lips, searching for the statutory, plastic water jug.

John had anticipated, had begun pouring and handed the tumbler over.

Sherlock downed the liquid without a pause. “You’ve been staying at Baker Street.” His moving gaze halted on a plain, old, black suitcase. Throwing off the sheet he swung his bare legs to the floor, wiggling his toes. “You brought a suitcase. Thank you.”

A swell of pleasure engulfed John, adding to the feeling that the world was turning the right way up again. “Your suit is in the locker. I packed the rest in there.” He fetched the case and dumped it on the chair. “Leave the venous cannula in place, mm?”

“Oh.” Sherlock, up on his feet, swayed slightly as he looked at the tubing protruding from the vein in the crook of his elbow. “Yes. I believe Mycroft will have a car for me.”

“I think one’s on the way. He posted a guard outside the door.” John agreed.

“A spy, you mean.”

John smiled then left to wait in the bland corridor that he had trooped up and down every day for a fortnight. He noted that Sherlock strolled out looking much fitter than any man who had twice recently been hovering between life and death really ought to do.

“Ready?” John suggested.

“As I’ll ever be.” Sherlock grinned.

Infected by that impish grin, John felt his face crack into a grin in return.


	2. No place like home.

Chapter 2 No place like home.

Monday 13th October.

 

221B had felt cold and empty without John. With John in the flat, Sherlock could admit that it was fanciful, but 221B seemed to breathing a sigh of relief. It must be the sound of the fire that Mrs Hudson had set going. It was not a cold October; the fire was to make it feel welcoming for John to encourage him to stay. Sherlock made a beeline for the comfort of his chair as John took his customary seat opposite.

Mrs Hudson had come upstairs laden with a tray of ham sandwiches and had made them a pot of tea. Eventually, she stopped fussing in her motherly fashion, whisked the empty plates away and had gone downstairs. So they could talk, she said. Sherlock felt his stomach lurch, John looked as if he was screwing himself up to say something devastating as soon as they were alone. Perhaps John would be announcing his return to Mary.

 _So, it begins._ “I cannot say I blame you for not going back to your flat immediately.” Sherlock began the unavoidable conversation for John. “Though, under the circumstances, Mary will not deem it unreasonable.”

“It’s not like that.”  John stared at his thumb rubbing on the chair arm. “It’s not going to be like that. I’m done with Mary.”

“Are you sure? You have a baby on the way. That’s not the John Watson I-”

“Sherlock!” John pulled in an audible breath. “I haven’t got one on the way. Mary has. I haven’t.”

“You haven’t?” _Not just a bit not good, decidedly not at all good._ “How do you know?”

“Because I’m a doctor. Because she was on the pill.” John’s patient voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I know when she fell on and it wasn’t with me.”

Sherlock frowned. John’s life had been flipped into the air and it was still spinning and falling like that bullet-pierced fifty-pence piece. The only way that John could know was if he had not bedded his wife during the window for conception. He was surprised. John, had an apparently healthy appetite in that direction. Mary could not be dissatisfied. He was well equipped, even the way that John walked advertised his credentials. _Not helping._

“Does,” Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered as he paused to re-frame the question, “have you talked to her about it. Had words?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to her since the ambulance carted you off to hospital.”

“I see.”

But, no, it wasn’t a surprise. A month into the marriage John was folding his shirts as if packing his bags was at the back of his mind. He must have figured it out then. Mycroft’s brilliant plan had been unravelling faster than a thread of one of John’s jumpers caught on a nail. A brilliant plan if one has an elder sibling who will do anything to ensure that I do what he wants, while he can claim plausible deniability all the while.

Don’t go up against Magnussen, or you’ll be going against me – read instead Do take Magnussen out of the running but without Mycroft appearing to be involved or aware.

 _Enjoy not getting involved._ Do be involved.

Mycroft knew something about Mary. He must have known something.

Mary _had_ done her utmost to put all of that behind her. She loved John, albeit in her own way. John had loved her. And now? Now a battalion of emotions waged war for dominance across John’s sleep-deprived, troubled, expressive face.

John's thumb stopped circling the velvety texture of the chair arm. “I didn’t choose her.”

_Not her as she really is, no. I cannot tell him what he should think or do or be he must come to his decisions himself. Whatever has made John the way he is he must live with it happily or undo it himself._

“John, you could have pursued a different career, never joined the army. Had you remained a plain hospital doctor you would never have got shot nor run into Mike Stamford when I was looking for a flat-sharer. Had you made different choices we would never have met and you would never have met Mary.”

“You always have to prove you’re right, don’t you?” There was no accusation in John’s voice.

“You know me well, John.”

“I like to think I know you better than anyone else. You’ve never liked her. Tolerated her, for my sake, but you never, _actually_ , liked her. I don’t know why on earth I thought you would. Oh, no, I do know, because you can deduce anything off anyone.” John scrunched his fingers into fists and snapped them straight.

There, for Sherlock, was the problem that had turned around and bitten like an ungrateful dog. He had tried to like Mary for John’s sake so that John could have the life he wanted. Mary had tolerated her husband’s obnoxious friend (him). At least, Mary had done. Something had changed her mind, or someone.

_He’s moved on._

“There is nothing she would not do to prevent you from loving her.” Sherlock argued. It was not John’s fault that she had put up such a dense smokescreen that John couldn’t see through it. He hadn’t wanted to know, people put the past behind them and moved on.

“Mm, I know,” John scoffed, “it’s fine to almost murder your husband’s best friend, as long as her husband doesn’t find out. You had her face plastered on the front of that house, you thought she had come looking to finish the job off.”

  _That wife!_

 _Shut up_. _I agree, but shut up_.

 “What are we going to do about that, Sherlock?” John pleaded.

 “Do you have the memory stick she gave you?”

 “Yes.”

 Sherlock watched John heave himself to his feet and heard him going up to his bedroom as he crossed to the desk between the windows, pulled out a dining chair and switched on his laptop.

 

* * *

 John stood in front of the bedside cabinet in his room, reached to the back of the drawer and found the memory stick. The cold lump of metal in his hand held everything about who his wife was. It knew more about her than he did, and he’d lived with her.

“Have you read it?” The detective looked up as John marched back into the living room.

“No.” John handed over the metal rectangle. The slender, familiar hand deftly slotted the flash drive into the USB port. John turned away decisively. Sherlock was too distracting _. Friendship is enough, feel lucky to have that much._

“Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes now.” John moved away and sank tiredly into his chair by the fireside. “You could have said something.” _Could have said something when we were pissed on my stag night. But, I don’t think you feel things like that, do you. I’m an idiot to love you. I sat there, by your bed, again, waiting for you to rise like a bloody, dark, curly-haired phoenix, being an absolute idiot in love with you_. He admired the pointed little curl at the nape of Sherlock’s pale, slender neck for a moment before tearing himself away from the beautiful distraction with a sigh. _It’s not going to change, get used to it._

 “We all have shadows.” Sherlock said, opening the drive.

“How black are hers?” John asked, not expecting a straight answer. _It’s okay, I have faith in you. You can outclass any villainous shit you choose to go up against_. “Don’t tell me, I can guess.”

Sherlock looked John in the eyes. “There was nothing to tell. The first time I saw Mary I deduced that she was a guardian of a secret. Everyone has a secret. It may not be of any magnitude. A tattoo they regret, an indiscretion of youth, something of no consequence.”

“It was a bit more than that.” John blinked, making an effort to hide his secrets. He felt Sherlock was deducing him, failure, shame and guilt made him feel shaken and vulnerable. For a moment he wondered if coming back to Baker Street had been a mistake, perhaps he should have looked for another flat. But there was nowhere else he wanted to be except in 221B with Sherlock in it. Janine had altered where things were kept. He had moved everything back to where it had always been. Staking his claim, righting his surroundings, putting his life back together again.

“If you could see your way to topping me up?” Sherlock’s voice penetrated John’s thoughts.

 _Top up his analgesic_. “Of course. You need to rest a bit. This can all wait.” _Idiot. Another day of kicking yourself, not very good is it._

Sherlock gingerly eased off his suit jacket. Except that the sleeve became stuck.

“Hang on.” John hurried to help, standing behind Sherlock, he peeled the jacket off with care. Slowly exposing the tight, white shirt clinging to that surprisingly muscular torso which narrowed sharply to Sherlock’s hips _._ John held his breath recovering his composure, then slid the jacket off Sherlock’s arm. _I don’t know how Sherlock keeps fit and trim. Maybe he does yoga in his bedroom. God, don’t think of that now._

“Better.” John confirmed, draping the jacket over a dining chair back, before following Sherlock to his bedroom. “A rolled up sleeve is…” John stopped just inside the door frame as Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs and continued, with his back to him, to unbutton the white shirt front. “Fine.” _Dear Gods._

It hit John far below his waistband that he was in Sherlock’s bedroom watching him undressing. He moved to the bedside cabinet, now laden with medical supplies provided by Mycroft, and switched automatically into his doctor mode to extract an antiseptic wipe, while out of the corner of his eye Sherlock’s bare shoulder peeked out from the shirt.

“If you could sit down, Sherlock.”

“Of course.” Sherlock folded himself down onto the edge of the sleigh bed, resting his hands on his thighs. “We’d better have it off.”

John’s heart decided to miss a beat.

“New shirt.” Sherlock added, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“New shirt, yeah.” John admonished himself for hearing innuendo where there wasn’t any. “Don’t want to ruin it.”

It didn’t help that his fingers touched the cool skin of Sherlock’s shoulder as he slid the fabric off it. The room suddenly felt warm.

“No.” Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

“Sorry, I’m trying not to hurt you.” John muttered. _Someone has, that’s obvious from the scars where none used to be._ Characteristically Sherlock had never elaborated on what he did, or where he had been while he had been away. John hadn’t asked either because Sherlock was a very private man. There had always been that gap, an unassailable barrier between them.

“Make a deduction.” Sherlock rumbled. “Observe and deduce from what you see.”

John stared, the baritone reverberating through his heart and soul.

“You’re an army doctor. There’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

That was true, but nothing had prepared him for being attracted to Sherlock Holmes. There didn’t appear to be an antidote either.

“Tell you what caused the scars. You already know that.” John prevaricated.

“ _I_ know. But it’s useful to me for you to keep in practice.”

John shifted on his feet and exhaled. He could not argue with the logic. There was always that feeling of inevitability that you could not win an argument with Sherlock.

“This is from when you were away, isn’t it?”  John asked.

He received no answer so he turned his professional eyes on a small scar on the point of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Where did this happen? This one?” The fleshy pad of John’s thumb traced over the semi-circular scar. “It looks like an injury from an open-ended blunt instrument.” _From a height._ The scene flashed through John’s mind of Sherlock being attacked. He felt his face line with horror before he disciplined himself to wear his professionally neutral face. “A gas or water pipe?”

“Serbia. A military installation. The last cell of Moriarty’s network.”

John shuddered and turned to fill a syringe. “Straighten your arm out.”

Sherlock complied, thrusting his forearm forward for John to administer the morphine via the cannula.

“Continue with your analysis.” Sherlock shifted and sat up straight looking out of the window with a blank face.

“This one.” John’s finger traced across a small, jagged line over Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock wriggled. “Sorry.” John apologised before smiling on realising that Sherlock was ticklish. He’d never thought about that. _Of course Sherlock is ticklish, he’s human._ “I’m just guessing here. A bread knife?”

“Bordeaux. Kitchen of a hotel. I was undercover as a waiter. He was lucky, that’s all.” Sherlock sniffed.

“Not after you got wind of him.” John smiled grimly. He glanced over to Sherlock’s framed black belt certificate hanging on the wall. Sherlock was competent in a fair fight, and John had long forgiven Sherlock for going off on his own, but the thought of his friend being in danger alone still pained John. “You never said. I feel a right shit now. Sorry. I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”

“We were rather engaged in other matters of a more urgent nature.” Sherlock said softly, breathing gently again.

“I was out of order. I didn’t think.” John apologised while he had the chance.

“You weren’t to know.” Sherlock let it go. “I wouldn’t have told you even if you had asked.” He admitted, breathing regularly and slowly.

They talked. Quite frequently Sherlock would impart some random nuggets of knowledge. Often they just didn’t talk and it was fine, mostly. The morphine had loosened Sherlock up for talking, it seemed.

“You’ve told me now.” John stated, hoping the conversation wouldn’t be closed down, wanting to prolong this rare, precious moment of intimacy.

“I have, haven’t I.” Sherlock’s lips relaxed into a calm smile. “You look done in, John. You should get some rest.”

 John watched Sherlock swing his legs onto the mattress, lie back and settle his head on the pillow. “Yeah, try to sleep.” John nodded and retired up to his own room.


	3. Foul deeds will rise.

Chapter 3 Foul deeds will rise.

Monday 13th October

By eight-o-clock, the sound of John running a bath for himself dragged Sherlock from the arms of Morpheus in time for them to pick at Mrs Hudson’s chicken and broccoli in sauce with mashed potatoes. Sherlock sighed internally. He had eaten at lunchtime and even John, for all his stoic cheerfulness, had lost his appetite, stirring the green and beige mush around on his plate. Morphine subdued everything into an even, parched, plain as featureless and lacking in colour as the dinner on Sherlock's plate. He felt stymied. As much as he wanted to do something about John’s unhappy predicament there was nothing he could do that Mycroft wasn’t already doing. Supposed to be doing. A cigarette was tempting but that would earn John’s tired disapproval.

“We could watch a film. There’s a buddy-cops one you haven’t seen.” John suggested with stoic cheerfulness.

Sherlock assented by flopping into the corner of the settee and sprawling. Ten minutes into the film he had started to lose interest in it and was thinking about John again. _You like a little mystery._

Twenty minutes into the film Sherlock was fast losing the will to live and his mind had returned to John’s problems. He glanced sideways as John chuckled at something that had escaped Sherlock’s wandering attention. _Foul deeds will rise_. Sherlock had run through John and Mary’s wedding guest list again and he was sure the answer was not there. He concluded that he had not missed something important. Another film like this and his brain would dissolve into soup and leak from his ears. He decided he would take John to Kew Gardens to collect plant samples. It would be something they could do together, something familiar and practical. John would feel useful.

The door-bell then rang, grating and rusty as if it could barely stretch to inform of a visitor, but it was enough. More than enough.

“Client!” _Thank god for that._

“Client.” John sat up ramrod straight. “Sherlock, you hate hospital food.”

“Then I shall just have to stay out of hospital.” Sherlock smiled benignly.

John sighed as two sets of feet climbed the seventeen stairs.

“I told him you were busy, but...” Mrs Hudson wavered, looking at the young man following her.

_But? He’s come here in desperation. He’s clearly not a motorcyclist despite wearing a black, leather jacket with quilted shoulder and elbow patches. School tie, so, teacher. Works in I.T. The give-away is that callous on his right hand on the heel, where he takes the mouse from the mat to the side of the desk and leans on the desk. Yes, do come in, we are an agency for finding escaped computer mice and lost pencils. Pencils. John’s rubbish psychiatrist would have a field day with that._

“We were watching a film, that’s all.” John paused the DVD player. “It wasn’t very good.”

“Sssorry, when you’re having an evening off. But. Please, can you help, my girlfriend’s not come home. Something’s happened to her.” The man apologised in a rush.

 _Beats the film, Kew still wins by a length. Damn._ “Why do you think something has happened to your girlfriend?” Sherlock asked.

“There’s a photo.” The visitor rummaged through his pockets feverishly for several seconds. His hands shaking, he stumbled forward producing his phone, jabbing furiously at the screen. “She sent it to me, I don’t know why. I don’t even know where it is.”

“Your girlfriend works in a profession with a less than wholesome reputation.” Sherlock remarked swiping through the photographs and recent texts. _Tim Goldston, I.T. teacher in a school, also teaches adult classes at Godfrey Mere Further Education College. Geek, like the tube station man who found Sumatra Road station for me, a specialist with narrow interests. Tim Goldston isn’t all bad, at least he isn’t spreading himself too thinly over life’s toast._

“Kitty only works in the office.” The boyfriend snapped, his eyes moving rapidly from Sherlock to John and back again. John had questioning eyebrows.

“Mr Goldston’s girlfriend works for an escort agency. She took the photo from Southwark Bridge, from the Bankside end.” Sherlock returned the phone.

“Oh, god. Please, no.” The colour drained from Goldston’s face.

“She is unlikely to have jumped, Mr Goldston.” _Believe me I made a study of it for the purpose of saving John’s life_.

“Oh, god.”

“Depression?” John asked. Goldston nodded dumbly. John’s eyes willed Sherlock to be tactful.

“Come, John. Get your coat.” _You’ll thank me later, there’s nothing like the Work as an antidote to your sorrows._

“Sherlock.”

“Mr Goldston, if you could run down and find us a taxi.” _That isn’t going to happen._

John stood quickly. “No, you sit down. I’ll get one.”

 _Timing!_ Sherlock felt his face splitting into a grin and slapped it down before John noticed. He thought he detected a hint of relief in John’s frame as John hauled on his black jacket, pocketed his phone and shot off downstairs. John’s black investigating jacket with the corduroy collar, a hunters jacket with a leather patch where the hunter slung a gun over the shoulder. Still the soldier and hunting. _Give me time._

Sherlock smiled as he swirled his coat about himself. “Come along, Mr. Goldston, we have a bridge.”

******

“She’s been depressed for months. I thought she was getting better. She’s a good actress.” Goldston laughed mirthlessly, staring down at the floor of the taxi.

“Do you know what caused the depression?” John asked quietly.

“Yeah, her acting career went down the pan. She was working on some cheap budget film when I met her. I was on my way to a job interview, I got lost. I walked in on it by accident. A bloody massive security fella dived on me, well, I couldn’t go to the interview with a hole in my trouser knee so I hung about to watch and she came over at the end to apologise for me getting stomped on.”

“And you began dating.” John prompted with an understanding smile.

 _Have I told you what a big, romantic you are, John? I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned that to you on more than one occasion. This is what you do every day as a doctor, set up a sympathetic resonance with your patients. Distracting them from pain._ Sherlock scowled. _Distracting me from looking at my phone._

“Yeah. This is Kitty.” Goldston proudly showed John his photographs. “Hosting at a film tie-in book signing. That one’s the day I met her. This one, she was doing a telly advert.”

“Very pretty.” John said politely.

_There is nothing on my phone. I know there is more. Good actress with a regular, if not promising, career and you ended up working on a budget film worse than John’s buddy-cops film, so dire a film, in fact, that your doting boyfriend can’t remember the name of it and that’s where you met and your relationship began. He can remember the trivial details so it’s not his memory at fault. And you are depressed about the downturn of your career so it’s hardly likely that you were at fault. Why? Come on, Kitty what are you doing here?_

_“I’m your client. You are the famous world’s only consulting detective. When it’s not in Scotland Yard’s remit or they’re are out of their depth, and that’s not uncommon, they come to you, as do all the private detective agencies when they are stuck. Besides that, John says you are clever.”_

The taxi threaded its way at snail pace in the evening traffic onto the yellow and pale green painted bridge, greyed out in the artificial street lights.

“Slow down.” Sherlock instructed the driver, sharply. “Here, by the stone pillar. That’s where she took the photo from. Stop at the end, please.”

“I can’t see her!” Goldston quavered, banging his forehead on the cab’s window in an effort to see out. The taxi stopped, Sherlock got out quickly with Tim Goldston following while John paid the driver.

“Why here? Why?” Sherlock spun on the pavement searching for the answer.

“I don’t know!” Goldston leaped to the railings and looked down into the dark, grey water rippling and inexorably sliding away. He abruptly vomited and groaned.

Sherlock blinked, stifling an urge to suggest to his client that he would appreciate silence in order to concentrate. “She hasn’t jumped.”

“How do you know!” Goldston howled.

John stood, his brow furrowed, looking up and down the bridge. “Tell him how you know, Sherlock.”

 _That was not a suggestion or a request. It’s an order._ “It’s a busy road, if she had jumped someone would have seen and would have thrown a life-buoy ring to her. None of the rings are missing from the niches. There would have been a traffic report of bus delays and vehicles backed up while the bridge was closed. There weren’t and it wasn’t.”

 _The photograph has to signify something_. “What is she saying?”

“The place means nothing to you?” John asked Goldston.

“No. Not a thing.” Goldston’s phone bleeped and his face lit up at the text. “It’s Kitty, she’s on her way home. Do I want Indian or Chinese!” Realisation then spread across his face and settled on his brow. “God, sorry, I’ve dragged you both out here for nothing. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Go home, Mr Goldston. Thank you for an interesting diversion.” Sherlock scanned for a taxi and threw out an imperious arm to bring a cab into the kerbside.

“Wait! I’ve to pay.” Goldston shouted and ran up to the kerb. “You charge a fee for a call out, don’t you?”

“I listen to my clients and they take my advice, except when I must go to see things with my own eyes, and I pocket a fee for services rendered except when I waive it.” Sherlock replied honestly.

John had, at one time, complete charge of Sherlock’s cash flow in and out. For John to do so again was a logical and practical arrangement leaving Sherlock free to do his part. Tim Goldston got the gist that the detective wasn’t charging him but stuffed several notes at John before flagging down the taxi trundling up the bridge with his light on.

After settling into their cab John waved two twenty pound notes from their client at Sherlock. “There’s another twenty for this fare as well.”

“Oh, well, if you aren’t going back to your old flat for a while stock up on socks or something.”

“You didn’t expect to find her, did you.” John stated, more than asked, as he filed the forty pounds in his wallet.

“No.”

“You just came out to enjoy a diversion.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes batted slowly for emphasis. “To make a point.”

“A point?”

“The point being that I’m perfectly able to take a trivial case which doesn’t involve strenuous physical effort. So, you may now stop having an utterly colossal and, may I add, entirely unnecessary concern for my sanity.”

John snorted an amused little laugh. “Why did she go there and take a photo?”

“I don’t know, John. Curious isn’t it.” Sherlock smiled.


	4. The Statement of the Case

Chapter 4 The Statement of the Case

Monday 13th October to Saturday 8th November 

The return journey from Southwark Bridge to Baker Street passed in companionable silence as Sherlock took in the view of his London, and John, he noticed, took an interest in his hands. With both hands stuffed into his coat pockets John looked away and took an interest in the usual evening sights. With one hand on his lap and the other pulling at his lower lip John wriggled on the leather seat. Fiddling with his phone on his lap, flipping it over sideways in his hand caused John to take in a breath and look away. _Interesting._

As he planned, Sherlock took John to Kew Gardens to collect samples. John had long acclimatised to English weather, yet still basked contentedly in the heat of the Tropical House. Sherlock walked along making random notes until he was lathered with sweat in the Belstaff and his hair stuck to his scalp, while John happily read the information boards, barely perspiring. John did nothing unusual over coffee in the café and was only mildly subdued. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if his sanity was in jeopardy as he failed to deduce what John was thinking about.

Sherlock had no such difficulty in deducing that John’s return to Baker Street was causing him to think more about what John might be thinking. More, it was John’s strange newly-developed obsession with Sherlock’s hands. Just as if a pink elephant was mentioned - the mind conjured up a pink elephant. So Sherlock was doing no more than taking a quick shower and dribbled shower gel onto his palm and wondered what fascinated John about it. He saw a hand, his plain, ordinary hand. Sherlock’s hands were violinist’s hands, with suitably long fingers that curled around the neck of his instrument. John’s hands were made for holding his gun. Strong, dependable fingers that wrapped around his weapon.

 _Not again._ Too late, Sherlock's defiant brain connected dots that he would rather didn’t assemble themselves into an arrow-straight line while he was showering. He groaned a curse through his teeth as a bolt of energy raced down his spine and spiked into the part of his anatomy that wished to form itself into an arrow. He couldn’t go into the sitting-room with a bulge in his trousers! That tipped his logic toward curing the arrow problem. Five minutes later he was still sporting a firm, aching arrow after reciting the Periodic Table. Taking himself in hand was the next best solution. The quicker the better. John’s hands, well made, strong, wrapped around his weapon. Sherlock made a fist and pushed himself through it, struggling to make it from frustration to relief. Stroking felt better. It would feel better if it were John’s experienced hand taking him into a higher gear. He wouldn’t even need John to touch him, it would be enough if John watched him with a hungry look in his eyes. Much better. John wanting him and making Sherlock wait for the privilege of being caressed into release from the dreadful, intense, insistent throbbing. His breath came with more difficulty as he imagined John’s hands roaming. Soon Sherlock was strung tighter than the E string on his violin, inching closer to the edge of the precipice, right on the edge.

“Sherlock, can you come?” John asked at the bathroom door.

Sherlock’s heart threw itself violently around his ribcage as he shivered involuntarily. The lightning struck through his arrow. “Yes!” _For god’s sake, John don’t frighten me, sneaking up like that. Oh. Yes, no. yes. Shit._ His release came in a rush. _Oh shit, yes._

“Good. The parcel delivery man needs you to sign for it. I’ve dropped him a tenner to wait.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock croaked. He could sustain heart failure if John did that again.

“You okay in there? You sound like you’ve a cold coming on.”

“The water’s hot.”

Sherlock swished water around, flew out into his room and barely dried himself to quickly pull on his striped pyjama bottoms and a grey T shirt (which went on the right way out) had to be turned inside out so the seam didn’t irritate the sensitive skin on his neck.

Cursing the delivery man, pulling his blue dressing gown around himself, and passing John washing his microscope slides in the kitchen, Sherlock stomped downstairs in his bare feet and took delivery of the parcel. John skittered down after him to carry the parcel of chemicals upstairs. Caring John unpacked the parcel and arranged the bottles neatly in the cupboard while Sherlock sat in the kitchen, bent over the microscope, with drying pyjama bottoms stuck to his derrière. John had to stand on tiptoes to reach the back of the shelf and offering to do the task himself would only deprive John of the opportunity to be doing something that made him happy, caring for Sherlock. He knew that John was in a good mood because the doctor was humming random notes.

And John was definitely looking at Sherlock’s fingers making tiny adjustments to the sensitive lens of his microscope. Sherlock also observed that John scarcely breathed while he passed him the glass slides. Sherlock tried to reciprocate to make John feel wanted and cared about in a platonic way that John was comfortable with. Short of ogling John’s hands in return Sherlock didn’t know what else to do to make John happier. He doubted that ogling would work anyway. John would notice and they might have to talk about the thing that hung between them. The elephant in the room. John avoided as if it would bite him so Sherlock pretended it didn't exist either.

As a warm October rolled into a damp start to November Sherlock reminded himself; _For god’s sake, have patience._

***

John remained silent about his troubles while Sherlock engaged in his research. Sherlock would do what he could and bringing up the subject again would just seem to be badgering his friend. He felt better for being occupied and Sherlock ate the Risotto, and they had fish and chips, and November the 5th passed without troubling either if them. It was an unsolved case for Sherlock and John knew his best friend didn't need reminding of a failure. With the kitchen table taken up by Sherlock’s microscope, chemicals and samples the sitting room desk did double duty as the table for meals.

Shortly after a late breakfast, voices sounded in the hallway, followed by feet on the stairs. Sherlock peered over the top of his sensational newspaper as Tim Goldston sidled through the flat’s door, hovering on the threshold.

“I hope it’s not a bad time again. Just,” the young man turned aside nervously to the landing, “your landlady said you’d finished brunch, that’s all.” Goldston, damp from the drizzle, apologised. “This is my girlfriend, Kitty, Kitty Burridge.”

John smiled and put down his mug of tea. “Come in, Mr Goldston.” He prompted Sherlock automatically.

“Thank you.” Goldston chose the settee followed slowly by Kitty, her long, flowing, electric-blue dress rippled above sturdy, black laced boots as she shuffled to the sofa. She had a haunted, disquieted look as she took in her surroundings.

“Not a social call.” Sherlock remarked, folding his copy of ‘CAM Global News’ with neat precision before laying it on the table. He crossed to his leather chair, sat and touched his palms together, his fingertips meeting under his bottom lip. “Please, feel free, but be succinct.” His eyes closed lightly.

“Erm, no, it's not a social call, we have to trouble you again.” Goldston perched on the settee like a bird. “I mean we need his help. Is he listening?” He whispered at John.

“He’s listening. Go ahead.” John encouraged.

Kitty coughed nervously. “Tim convinced me to come to you. He told me you might be able to help. It’s my friend Mel who needs help, you might have heard of her as Melinda Bettrys in Valley of the Cursed, Portsmouth Pride, the actress, no?” She surveyed the blank faces. “She’s got involved with one of the best loved actors of stage and telly. According to the press he is,” she scoffed. “Except if you knew him like we do you’d know he’s a despicable twat. That’s being polite an’ all. I’ve come because of what he did, to me. He ruined me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Did what to you, Miss Burridge?”

“Ruined my life, my career, and I won’t tell you what he made me do because...” Kitty trailed off to take a distressed breath. “I couldn’t tell anyone, not even Tim, until last week because…”

“Because you feared that you would be blamed as bringing it upon yourself and nobody would believe you due to the profession you now work in.”

“They wouldn’t, you’re right. Brandon Greene is mister nice guy, but people have no idea what he’s like. He drugged me, he lied, and he threatened me. He’s got them all fooled or under his thumb. And he’ll do it again.”

“He threatened you with what?” John asked, feeling concern.

Tim Goldston nodded to Kitty who struggled for a moment. “Footage. He told me it was an audition tape for a big role. He’d fight for me to get the part if I showed what I could do, so he said. I was to play a drunk homophobic woman coming out of a nightclub. The script was a nasty rant about it. It was a set up. He made it look like it was me and he threatened to leak it to all the press if I didn’t behave like he wanted. I was struggling to get work as it was, nobody would have employed me again.”

“You got free, though.” Sherlock turned towards the couple.

John saw the concern on the detective’s pale features. “He used the tape?”

“No, he got tired of me. He does that. When a new face takes his fancy.” Kitty leaned into her partner who put his arm around her while she sniffled into her handkerchief. “He didn’t ruin it all, Tim, it brought me you.”

“Yeah, and it brought me you, sweetie.” Tim looked up. “I couldn’t tell you what I knew, Mr Holmes. I didn’t know the half of it anyway.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “There has been gossip, surely?”

Kitty let out a pained, bark of a laugh. “Of course there’s gossip, but Brendan Greene is an actor, when he paints himself as the innocent victim of idle chatter people believe him. They want to be in with him. He’s a proper little saint in Tipton. He has a house there. Paying for the church hall doing up, a stage putting in. The village museum got an extension built for the stuff he bought for them. Do you know how difficult it is to get planning consent from a Lakeland County Council? Well, he did,” Kitty clicked her fingers, “just like that. He’s as bent as they come, Mr Holmes. You might think I was naïve, I was, I can admit that, but I wasn’t the first. Oh, no. Not by a long chalk. I know what he’s done and he’ll do it to Melinda.”

“There were others?” Sherlock asked.

“About a hundred of them.” Kitty paused. “Yeah. That many, maybe more. He was very drunk after one of his house parties and he bragged about it to me, that’s the sort of devil he is, he showed me a glimpse of his stash of photo albums and tapes. Of course, when he’d sobered up he knew he’d made a mistake. He looked me dead in the eye and told me I didn’t want to end up in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.”

John took in such an audible breath that all heads turned his way.

“I think he meant Will Hardtstof,” Kitty put in quickly.

Sherlock’s eyes burned brighter. “Who he?”

“Willem was the camera operator who shot the footage of me. I think, not to mince words, Greene probably had him as well. I went to see Will. He’s too scared of that devil to speak to Melinda, he wouldn’t even speak to me. Will didn’t set me up, at least I don’t think he did, but, you know, he probably has a guilty conscience. I’m not sure if Greene was just making that up to frighten me. Will was injured when a stunt car overshot his mark and clipped him. It was the way he looked at me though, how he said it, like he’d do it. What I went through? Well, I believe he’d do it. I told Melinda but she thinks I’m just chucking vitriol because he blew me out.”

Sherlock turned to John “Willem lives in a flat near…”

“Southwark Bridge.” John answered slowly.

“You scintillate today.” Sherlock smiled, before turning back to his client. “I’ll take your case.”


	5. The Game is On

CHAPTER 5 The Game is On

Sunday 9th November. Remembrance Sunday

 

“Your sister worked in film and telly, didn’t she?” Sherlock came out of his silent meditation in his chair at lunchtime when John came upstairs from retrieving a lost sock from between the drum and casing of Mrs Hudson’s washing machine. John dumped his bag of clean washing on the floor by the desk.

“Still does, as far as I know.” John considered the question. “She might know someone who would have a word with Melinda whats-her-name. Put her wise about Brendan Greene.” John reached for his phone from the cluttered desk. It was difficult to know what Sherlock was thinking about. John often didn’t ask either because it would be easier to interrogate a ruddy garden gnome and get an answer that made sense than try to make sense of what Sherlock came out with sometimes.

“Melinda Bettrys.” Sherlock reminded as John put the phone to his ear. “I want to meet Harry. A phone call won’t do for this.”

“Harry, I was wondering if you were busy.” _Sober._ He walked to the window and looked out at the sunshine kissing the dun-coloured bricks of the houses opposite to 221B.

“I’m on set hanging about for the lead to get away from a press junket. If you can call that being busy.” Harry grumbled. “Shit, this coffee is bloody hot.”

“Do you know anyone who knows Melinda Bettrys, a friend of hers?” _You maybe?_

“Why? Do you want her autograph?”

“No, Sherlock wants to talk to someone who knows her. Someone she would listen to about something important.”

Sherlock frowned. “John, you’re making a mystery out of a molehill. Tell Harry I want to talk to her. Where is she?”

 _Yeah, hold your horses I was getting round to that._ “Where are you? Sherlock wants to meet to talk to you.”

“That was nearly my phone on the floor as well as my ruddy coffee. Oh, lovely timing, here comes the star now. Hotel Antarin, Cardiff, after 7pm tonight. Otherwise, Bath. Gotta dash.” She powered off.

“She’s in-”.

“Cardiff. Don’t look surprised, John, I have excellent hearing. Overnight bag.” The detective smirked and stalked off.

Yeah, you know you have just been clever, you know it’s annoying but I like it. You are happy again, you have a case. The trips to Kew were nice, it made a change to get out of the flat for a bit and watch you pottering about making notes. I like how you get absorbed in what you do, how you move without really looking where you are going. Like you see everything and can navigate through it. I trust you to navigate.

I know you meant I made choices and they led me to you. It was worth getting shot for that. Nearly killed me but, hey, I made it through, and there you were and you were the only damn person to see me. The real me, not the invalid the unusable wreckage. You saw below the surface. And, sometimes, you let me see what’s under your armour-plating.

I’ve seen you giggle like a child. You let me see the child at Kew. Like a kid concentrating, your tongue slips out a tiny bit and passes over your bow shaped lips and you aren’t aware of it. And then the light changes and paints darkness in the hollow of your cheekbones and the angles stand out sharply. You don’t look like an innocent kid then. You look like a predator hunting. Hunting for I don’t really know what. Information, a criminal, to put your world in order like your sock index. The plants, to know everything about them, have an intimacy with them. I want to know you like that.

And a bit here and there I do see you, under the surface, when you forget I’m here. I saw you looking like a little drowned rat with your hair plastered to your face and do you know what, Sherlock, you looked like you didn’t care what you looked like, how I saw you. That’s what I want. I want your improbably long toes and hair that I want to feel run through my fingers, and your crappy sawing on your violin when you are thinking sitting in your chair and your mercurial moods. Even when you want to drag me off to Cardiff where it’s probably pissing it down.

*******

 

Hotel Antarin, near to the centre of Cardiff, wore a lick of fresh paint to bolster it up over a rainy Welsh autumn. Patrons came out passing Sherlock and John as they entered the reception area next to a coffee and snack bar buzzing with mostly male guests in roomy, casual trousers, unseasonal shorts and cargo pants. They began drifting across the space to the bar as John enquired about Harry and the possibility of booking rooms. Sherlock’s spare frame stayed still as his eyes tracked a man lugging a wheeled, plastic leopard-skin suitcase.

“A moment, please, I’ll ring up for you.” The receptionist beamed at a tall man with glasses as she rang Harry’s room. “Miss Watson will come down.” She waggled the mouse on the desk and screwed her eyes up to read the bookings screen. “We have a deluxe twin with a bath and separate shower for tonight. There’s nothing else until tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

“That will be fine.” Sherlock smiled in a hideously artificial manner and carried on deducing the life history of guests as far as John could tell.

“Room 197 on the third floor.” The receptionist informed. With a professional, friendly smile she handed over two key cards and a form to fill in with a pen. John got on with checking in and was finishing signing in under his name for both of them when Harry arrived.

“John! Hello, you must be Sherlock.” Harry chimed and patted John’s arm. “I booked a dinner table for us. You don’t have to eat. I’m starving though.” She smiled and tipped her head towards the restaurant’s half-glazed doors.

“Hello.” Sherlock managed.

“It’s been a hell of a long day. I could eat a scabby donkey and go back for the saddle.” She explained as they walked.

Sherlock looked puzzled. John smiled. They had once been on holiday to visit Stella and Ted at a seaside town somewhere up north. He and Harry had ridden on donkeys on the sands. Harry had cried when she had been dragged away. “That hungry, eh.”

“Mm, Gloria Scott led the junket, a press free for all, interview after interview, she’s fab, they love her and keep her talking.” Harry laughed. “That delayed our male lead from getting through his round. That meant a tuna sandwich while we waited for him. He’s gonna get used to that before we’re done.”

Harry led to a reserved table near the kitchen doors. “I thought you might like a quiet corner. It doesn’t matter what you say here, the crews have all but filled this place. What’s said in the room, stays in the room.”

“Brendan Greene.” Sherlock replied pulling his chair under himself. No heads turned. He explained why he was interested in the actor until the waiter arrived and took their order from the Today’s Specials Menu on the chalkboard.

Harry looked at the tablecloth until the waiter left. “I hadn’t heard that on the jungle drums. She might have hopes but I wouldn’t lay a bet if I were her. He’s not the sort to commit to a relationship, too busy. At least he makes out he is in great demand, turning parts down. He’s a bit of a playboy, he’s a good actor, but he’s not in huge demand, he gets himself lots of publicity. Looks busy.”

“Can he do that? Pretend he’s up for a role when he’s not been asked?” John asked. He thought someone would just call Greene out for lying.

“Easy. Drop a hint, deny a rumour, the production gets more publicity, it’s all good, as long as you don't kick the arse out of it.” Harry shrugged.

“Is it possible that Melinda has dropped a hint to deny a rumour?” Sherlock asked.

“I wouldn’t have thought so. No, not her. People wait until they know it’s serious before they let on they’re dating and some have booked the wedding before they announce they’re engaged.”

“It’s too late then?” John asked, alarmed.

Sherlock’s jaw clamped. “It would seem so.”

“He’ll just do it again. To someone else.” John knew he wasn’t supposed to be encouraging Sherlock to do more than was really good for his health but they couldn’t let Greene just carry on like that.

“You want to stop him but you are concerned that I may overstretch myself.” Sherlock halted John’s thoughts with a sharp look.

“He’s a grown man, John!” Harry put in.

“I don’t want you ending up in hospital like that again.” John said more forcefully than he intended in a hoarse whisper. His face coloured up.

Too late for John to backpedal Harry had looked at John, her eyes wide with surprise, then at Sherlock who, even John had to admit seemed decidedly uncomfortable with downcast eyes.

“Oh.” The sound of awkward surprise had left Harry’s mouth.

The embarrassing moment was saved by the waiter bringing the food trolley. John wondered if the moment wasn’t just being prolonged though as the waiter fussed interminably long about serving them before leaving them in peace.

The waiter's loitering was irritating Sherlock too, his fingers rolled a staccato tap, impatience put an edge on his tone. “Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

“It’s not like that.” John complained. He hadn’t meant it to sound like a criticism or a declaration of his feelings either. It just came out before he had thought it.

“How is it, then? If-”

“Boys?” Harry sliced quietly into the makings of a scene. “Sherlock, you’ve got a brain the size of Brazil according to my brother. There must be some way to, I don’t know, to do something without over-extending yourself physically.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled and his lips tightened for a second. “Get close to him, bypass his security.”

“I could help with that.” Harry volunteered instantly.

“How would you help? Assuming that John doesn’t confine me to my bed.”

John lost the forkful of curry back onto his plate. He thought he would dearly love to keep Sherlock in bed for a week. Possibly with a gag in his mouth to stop him from talking. Sherlock would probably talk all the way through making love. He’d spout a running commentary into a Dictaphone and catalogue the time and what got John going and how long it took, speed, fucking which way the wind was blowing and the temperature of the room, everything. And it would be interesting because Sherlock would make himself an expert on John’s likes and wants and it would be mind-blowing sex. He would go along with that and anything within reason to make Sherlock happy. He would make do with wanking until kingdom come if Sherlock didn’t want a sexual component.

Chewing her scampi thoughtfully Harry then swallowed. “You need introducing to start with. Something in the industry. John says you can pull off a disguise. I can probably find you tickets to an event. Would that help?”

“Yes. It’d be a start.”

“There’s always people who buy tickets months in advance and can’t go when something more essential like being out of the country or fulfilling a contract comes up,” Harry sighed, “It’s happened to me. I’ll have a quiet, wee dig about meanwhile.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock excused himself to go to the bedroom leaving his meal

It left John feeling he had got away with his secret intact, if not from Harry, at least from Sherlock and Sherlock would be too busy to think about a sentimental outburst. They’d had lots of this bickering over nothing when Sherlock was bored and his laser focus would be on the case, it’d be forgotten about already. He didn’t want Harry to get involved in the case though, Greene was not a man to get on the wrong side of.

“What are you giving me daggers for, John?”

“I’d rather you stayed out of this, Harry. It’s not all little geckos and aluminium crutches”

“Oh, yeah, like I’m gonna pass up the chance to see Sherlock Holmes in action,” she snorted.

 _Kettle calling pan._ “I’m not saying don’t, just if you do, please, be very careful.”

Harry fell back on using charm. “I hear you. I do read your blog, John. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“Have you packed in drinking?”

“Yeah, I haven’t touched the stuff for ages. Go me, huh?”

John smiled. “Come here, you.” He shuffled around and gave his sister a hug. “Well done. For good this time, eh?”

“It’ll have to be.” Harry laughed into John’s shoulder. “I’m buying a new car, well, new to me, in a couple of weeks. I’ve been saving like crazy. Thor Bridge, this telly series I’m on with, the spec pilot episode went down so well they commissioned it as feature length and a six parter. So,” Harry let go of her brother with a broad grin, “that’s going to keep me occupied for months. The car’s my reward. Hey, look, time’s getting on, let me see if I can get people before they go to bed.”

“I don’t think an early night would be a bad idea for me.”

“Yeah, you need your beauty sleep. I thought you said he didn’t sleep? Sherlock.”

“Not like the rest of us mortals.” John winked.

**

John swiped the card in the hotel room’s lock, to his surprise it admitted him without difficulty. He entered slowly until he heard splashing. “You in the bath?”

“It’s not big enough.” Sherlock yelled back.

John laughed quietly, looking around the room at his bag dumped in the middle of one of the beds and Sherlock’s holdall sitting neatly on a chair by the side of the other. That was how Sherlock was about bedrooms, he liked his neat, tidy and next to the bathroom which he could spend ages in. This room had a separate shower so John seized the opportunity to relax before an early night. He had brought a white T shirt to cover himself instead of his dressing gown and away from home wore briefs to preserve his modesty. Feeling refreshed he wandered out and slid under the sheets to sit up against the headboard and see what he could turn up on the internet on Greene.

The hot tap added to the bathwater once before Sherlock emerged wearing a fluffy bath-towel scrubbing at his damp hair, head down, with a hand-towel. John re-focussed on a website.

“Brendan Greene is an unknown quantity. Apart from what we’ve been told I know almost nothing about him. This is your department more than mine.” Sherlock said somewhat distantly.

“All I know is what I’ve read and you know how accurate that’ll be.” John reached for his laptop.

“One thing I do know is he’s a murderer. His wife, apparently, fell to her death in the Splugen Pass on a trip. Literally. It was convenient that the witness also died that day. He exudes charm from every pore and has been associated with various women. Quite the lady-killer.”

John perked up. It was Sherlock's voice, ripe and sensual, posh as hell, plummy. “The murder was staged to look like an accident.”

Sherlock finished drying his hair, discarded the hand-towel on the floor and gave John his attention.

John’s breath stuttered to a stop for a moment as he caught sight of the two dusky pink circles of areola and oval nipples peaked up in the cool air. They would have been in a high contrast to Sherlock’s normally creamy pale chest but there was flush of pink there bestowed by the hot bath. A warm, pink flush, with upstanding, finger and mouth seeking nipples, as if in the state of arousal. He averted his eyes hurriedly.

“Is he good looking?”

 _What sort of question was that? Oh, yeah, his stag night ‘beauty is a construct shaped by early influences’ or something. Sherlock didn’t get it. Fair question then._ John raised his eyes and held Sherlock’s gaze. “I haven’t thought about it. I suppose so. It’s the make-up department’s job to tweak them into looking good.”

“I can’t discern what he likes. He’s been associated with a cameraman, four actresses, one film producer, a television presenter and a radio show host in the last six years. All different builds and hair colours.”

_I could tell you what I like. I’m looking at you. Too dangerous to think thoughts like that when you are looking almost right down into my very soul._

“Mm, I’ve just been looking him up.” John retreated to safety, pecking at his keyboard. “Maybe he likes the thrill of the chase.”

“Sorry?”

“He’s a man. Maybe he likes chasing them.”

“More than catching them.” Sherlock connected the dots. “We have to go undercover, deep undercover.”

“Hmm?” John queried, not looking up from his laptop with a video ready to play.

“John?”

John met Sherlock’s eyes and kept them there ignoring as best he could the acre of warm flesh and pushing away the thought of licking and nipping those peaked nipples. “You just said ‘We have to go deep undercover.”

“Mm,” Sherlock smiled mischievously, “we are. Going in deep.”

John felt his heart thump and his breathing change to the rhythm of arousal. The pocket of air between himself and Sherlock felt charged with the electricity of a desert storm. Air. Heated and crackling with tension as if one tiny movement would send a streak of lightning down and break the fragile pretence that he didn’t want to push Sherlock into the mattress with a kiss, caress his body inch by inch and bury himself deep in Sherlock. He swallowed the lump constricting his throat, pinned helpless by round dark pupils surrounded by golden hazel shards that shone in the aqua sky of Sherlock’s eyes. “How?”

“A small change for you into a personal assistant to an actor. Hardly a change at all, really. You’ll be able to keep it up?”

 _Hooooooo, yes._ “Absolutely.” John kept firm contact with Sherlock’s eyes.

“And stick close to me.”

“That’s guaranteed.”

“We’ll have to share a suite in a hotel again. You won’t mind?”

John noticed that Sherlock’s legs parted a little. _Oh, god._ Sherlock had learned, had perhaps learned, how to flirt.

“I’m here.” _Here, if you want me. And I think you do. Maybe you don’t know you’re making innuendo but you are. I know what that means. It means you have desires. So I’m going to let you chase me, because I know you’ll like that._ John smiled in the mildest of ways. “Not that we had any choice.” _Not making it easy for you._

John’s phone trilled from the coffee table. _Damn._ He was about to throw off the sheet covering himself but stopped as Sherlock got up and darted to pick up the call.

“Harry. Just a moment, John’s here.” Sherlock answered, then with a fluid movement swung and took two long strides to John’s bed, holding out the phone.

“Thank you.” John bloomed and took his phone from Sherlock’s palm. _This isn’t making it easy for me. You and your cheekbones and your chest. Those fingers. Long fingers with pink, neatly manicured nails. Fingers that tweak the dial on your microscope so delicate of touch. You’re going to get me half-hard standing there half-naked, looking like you want me to make a move on you. You look like you want to get under the covers with me. Christ, you look gorgeous fresh out of the bath with your nipples standing up in the air begging to be nibbled._

John heaved an internal sigh and tore himself from his thoughts. “Harry.”

“Hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient moment?”

“Not at all.” _Just breathless from flirting with my best friend and trying not to get a hard-on._ He tried to adjust his thoughts to persuade his blood to stop trying to abandon his brain in favour of filling his cock.

“I’ve blagged you tickets for NIFA, two tickets, dinner and awards night, your man is on the guest list. Tell Sherlock to make it count, won’t you. It was sold out months ago, I had to promise a big favour in return for them.”

“Tickets for NIFA.” John repeated for Sherlock’s benefit. _A date is where two people go out and have fun together, that’s what you said._

“What’s that?” Sherlock mouthed.

John shrugged, pulling a face. Sherlock padded to the bedside table for his phone and began searching for information. The towel had stuck to Sherlock’s buttock cheeks.

 _Ooh, you didn’t plan that, but it’s a nice view. You look edible and you smell gorgeous too._ John thought as Sherlock wandered back to his bed.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his mattress, poked about on his phone for a minute or two then looked up. “Black tie affair. You can’t go in what you have.”

“I’ll hire a suit then.”

“You’ll do no such thing. It’ll look cheap, as if I don’t pay you enough.”

“That’s never been a problem before.” John took the remark literally.

“I meant as an actor’s assistant. But, now you mention it, I really don’t think the surgery gave you an entire month of paid holiday.”

“I don’t want to go back while Mary’s there, I’ve gone back to being a locum. I can choose my own hours.”

“You might feel differently in another month.”

“I won’t. She knew what I’d be like if you died and she shot you anyway.” He looked away, moving his laptop to his side, then he noticed his phone had been sitting there out of sight.

“Oh, Christ!” He moaned quietly as he picked it up, feeling sick at the realisation that if Harry had been listening, waiting for him to say something, she had heard every word. He jabbed the end call icon fiercely.

“Oh. Look at it this way, it saves you actually having to tell her later.” Sherlock muttered.

“Later? Why would I tell Harry a thing like that!” John sat up stiffly, his voice rising.

“Well, if you will be having the illegal marriage declared void.” Sherlock began. “But, Mary was trying to start a new life, you-”

“She shagged David and got pregnant, how is that starting a new life?” John shook his head with a bitter smile. He didn’t want reminding of the mess his life was in.

“Please, I have enough with the police jumping to hasty conclusions without you decamping to join their ranks.”

John felt slighted at the barely concealed distaste in Sherlock’s voice.

Sherlock’s lips compressed. “We’ll get the file from Magnussen. You can give it to your wife as a parting gift. She’ll be safe then and so will the baby.”

John nodded. “As soon as you like”. _Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon._ “If it isn’t David’s baby, whose is it?” John sniffed.

“The night I came back. Mary said I must have needed a confidante.”

“Er.” John exhaled softly. “I can’t remember.”

“Then I shan’t remind you. My confidante will find hers. Or, at least, Mycroft will tell me where to look for him. Now, do you want to focus on this case? If so, I need Harry here.”


	6. You're a Pretty Lady

Chapter 6  You’re a pretty lady.

 

Monday 10th November.

 

At a little after seven in the morning the hotel’s spacious foyer and snack bar were alive with people milling around the reception desk checking out, crews and teams grabbing an early self-service breakfast while others struggled to take bags outside. Harry exchanged pleasantries with those nearest as she looked for John and Sherlock. She spotted the pair in the snack bar, John taking an interest in the bustle while Sherlock, sitting beside him, looked bored. Both men stood as she weaved between the shifting mass of humanity preparing to move location.

Harry gave Sherlock an up and down, appraising his taste in suits. The blue was bright, but not flashy and it brought out the blue in his eyes. The camera would love his unusual eyes. Gail had been persuaded to suggest to Ray, the casting director, to add Scott Ashton to the auditions list on the strength of his appearance alone. John looked like he was the business end of the duo in his brown suede blazer over jeans, the organised, trustworthy, dependable personal assistant to the posh actor with private means that allowed Scott Ashton to dabble in the film industry.

Her smile was for both men. “I have to be off shortly. The NIFA awards tickets are on the way. Call me a miracle worker but there’s a day’s work on set if you can get the audition this afternoon, the details are in here. Be nice to Gail, she’ll look after you.” She handed a plain, A4 white envelope to John, who folded it and jammed it in his inner pocket. “Shit, there’s Gail now, I gotta nash, no, no, she’s coming over.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock answered as Gail, in a long, powder-pink top and black leggings gracefully swerved around a clutter of suitcases and crossed the foyer to Harry’s side.

“Harry, here you are. All packed, Ginny found her zip bag.” Gail clutched at Harry’s elbow, her eyes resting then on the tall, dark-haired man’s face. “You must be Scott Ashton. I’m Gail Weeks. Call me Gail,” she beamed.

“I’m Ash.” Sherlock said, smiling. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Sherlock smiled so graciously that Harry could see why her straight brother had gone a bit doolally tap over the man. John’s eyes shone when he looked at Sherlock. And Sherlock was dead stuck on her brother, no two ways about it.

“You’ve had an interesting career. I looked you up on the database.” Gail replied, as if she had been deliciously naughty, scrunching up her shoulders, smiling.

Harry looked directly at John with a wry smile. “And busy men take some organising.” John’s eyebrows expressed his mute agreement. It was an ‘interesting career’ that had taken herself, John and Sherlock close to three hours to manufacture last night in their room. She felt tired but it had been fun to sit inventing a suitable, and untraceable, acting and stunt-work career for Sherlock.

“I see you’re on the list auditioning for the ex-boyfriend. I hope you can cry on demand, it makes life simpler altogether. Harry will fake it for if you can’t though,” Gail continued. “Oops, sorry, I’m slipping, Harry, I came to tell you the bus is waiting.”

“That’s me gone, then. Nice to meet you Ash. I hope to see more of you. And you, John, lovely to catch up with you again.”

“Nice to meet you too, Harry.” Sherlock replied with an ambiguous little smile.

 “Yeah. Lovely to see you again.” John smiled warmly.

 Harry glanced at the door, feeling her cheeks flush a little pink at the thought that her brother meant what he had said, turning to Gail she smiled softly. “Catch you later.”

 “Lucky you if you do.” Gail grinned until her radio squawking noisily called her away to answer a query.

 “This is my life.” Harry patted Gail’s bottom, obtaining a squeak from her girlfriend, before bouncing contentedly on her way outside.

 ***

 Sherlock returned himself and John to their room and stopped in the centre of it with a frown. “Let me see the script.”

 John handed the envelope over. He was sorry that Sherlock’s fingers didn’t brush his as Sherlock took it but he just patiently watched as Sherlock freed the paper, he had gained a free watch of those elegant fingers with time to admire the faintest of faint sprinkles of tiny, short hairs on the back of the man’s hands, it wasn’t all that bad. He could see why Sherlock was aggravated. It was important that Scott Ashton added a new credit to his list which would check out if Greene ran him through his security screening. More importantly Sherlock getting the part would give them an insight into being on a set with a crew and they would know someone other than Harry. To get an inroad into Greene for Sherlock landing this role was worth gold.

 “Can you feed me lines.” Sherlock’s forehead creased in concentration as he read and digested the words. The lines quickly deepened. After a few minutes, his eyes moving rapidly over the paper, he held it out to John. “You’re a pretty lady. That.”

 “Thank you.” John replied half an octave lower than normal, taking the script. “Things I do for you.” _Ah, I remember you made a funny of that from my stag night. You’re quite a happy drunk unless someone picks a fight with you._

 “I did warn you.”

 “When was that?”

 “I said it could be dangerous and you came from the far side of town. With a loaded weapon.”

  _Saucy._ “I heard no complaints from you.”

 “No, should complain about that, though,” Sherlock turned away, waving his hand dismissively at the sheet of paper. “who wrote that rubbish! It’s meaningless.”

 John sighed. His eyebrows met his hairline as he read the, apparently, offensive material. On paper it was bog-standard dialogue in a bedroom. Sherlock wouldn’t have any difficulty with it. He’d had no difficulty selling a fake relationship to Janine. He could walk this. “Doesn’t matter.” He pronounced his verdict decisively. “You’ll just have to make it mean something.”

 “Have you read it!”

 “What do you think I was doing!” John turned away for a moment. “You managed fine with Janine, didn’t you?” He spluttered.

 Sherlock had no reply. Indeed, he looked sheepish. And well Sherlock might. He’d shown no regret for stringing the poor girl along. The silence dragged and finally John had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock hadn’t made free with Janine. “You didn’t. She made it up. Is that what you’re saying?”

 “Of course she made it all up!” Sherlock said in an indignant tone as if John had asked a question to which there was a ridiculously obvious answer.

 John was curious. Sherlock had behaved last night as if getting physical was on his mind. Unless he had imagined Sherlock parading himself for the purpose of getting snogged and had bottled out of it. The lanky git had come across as sexually frustrated enough to start an argument and then spend three hours ignoring the fact that he had been flirting. “None of the ‘he made me wear the hat’.”

 “Certainly not. It’s my hat.” Sherlock bristled.

 John laughed quietly. Sherlock didn’t know what he had been doing last night. That explained it. It was his hat. That shouldn’t have made sense but it did. “This,” he waved the script briefly, “it might be sentimental or it could be power play, Sherlock. This is Pretty Lady’s experience with her ex-boyfriend. There’s a reason he is her ex.”

 “It doesn’t say why he’s her ex.”

 “They don’t want you to know yet or it’s not that important right now. I don’t know. Look, I’ll read the ex-boyfriend’s lines, you read the Pretty Lady’s.”

 “I’ve memorised them too.”

 “Okay. That was fast. It makes it easier.”

 The nod of assent was enough for John. He knew how to do this. You act like it's going to happen and it does. Providing you can pull rank. Sherlock trusted him so it should work. “Come here.” Half an order, half a request. Warm, quiet, but firm and fully expectant of compliance.

 Sherlock seemed to accept that in all seriousness, taking a short step forward. John waited for a long moment before speaking. “I don't want you to go.” John read Sherlock’s first line quietly, intensely, with insistence to keep the Pretty Lady right there.

 “I can’t...” Sherlock’s Pretty Lady replied quite firmly without moving. “I can’t stay here.”

 “Yes, you can.” John purred. Sherlock had the advantage of height but John knew how to use his stature by getting into Sherlock’s space. Close enough to almost feel the man’s body heat. John felt shaky inside as if all his nerve-endings had been rewired to respond to the merest wisp of breath passing Sherlock’s parted lips. He took in a calming breath, making Sherlock wait.

 “You know we’ve been good together.” John continued in a murmur, inclining his head closer to Sherlock. “Very good.” His voice intimating that the ex was referring to sexual intimacy.

 Something of that perhaps conveyed to Sherlock’s brain. “I have to go.” Sherlock delivered the line breathlessly.

 “Pretty Lady runs out then.” John prompted, retreating to an appropriate distance for friends and leaving Sherlock thinking. “Lovely delivery, by the way. Try it as yourself.”

 “That’s not really my area.”

 John thought he detected self-criticism there. “Yeah, well, just do what you can with it. Imagine it’s for a case.”

 “It is for a case!”

 “Yeah, so you won’t have any difficulty with it.” John’s eyes rolled. The stage had lost an actor when Sherlock had turned his attention to detecting. He’d be fine.

 After three more rehearsals in different tone Sherlock was satisfied that he could do something with the ‘rubbish’. If he was doing this, it had to be done right, he said. John had expected that; Sherlock didn’t do things by halves. Sherlock concluded by sending John out to buy himself a white dress shirt and a couple of extra shirts for other smart occasions, Sherlock having handed over his cash card in the name of Scott Ashton.

 “Nothing cheap, go for plain and tasteful, tailored fit.” Sherlock stipulated. “Scott Ashton is from family, has money to burn, pays his assistant very well, too well, and wouldn’t be seen dead with John Hill in anything less than the best. Bags will be with Reception. I’ll meet you in the snack bar.”

 “Understood.” John nodded. That was Sherlock back to his usual confident self. The audition would go sweetly.

 

***

Shopping for good shirts in an unfamiliar city took time. John wondered if it was Scott Ashton who wanted to see him in figure-hugging, elegant shirts. Shirts like those Sherlock wore that clung to his body like a second skin and only stayed buttoned by enticing the damn buttons to stay close to his skin, or if it was Sherlock who wanted to see his figure and for him to look classy. Sherlock had already gone for the audition by the time John returned to the hotel. The foyer, so recently filled by the rattling of cups, wheels of cases being rolled on the slate floor and the hum of busy guests, was empty, his own footsteps echoing as John headed for the snack bar.

 John waited with a coffee. Was it Sherlock having a stab at advising him on clothing, like a girlfriend might, or Sherlock dressing him to please his eye? Was he, John the romantic at heart, overthinking this with an imagination set aflame by the sexy bit of stuff unconsciously flaunting his assets last night?

 Sherlock was taking his time, John realised, as he ordered a second coffee. If this was simply for a case John swore he’d make Sherlock apologise by pinning his detective friend against a wall and making his arousal very obvious to Sherlock’s crotch. That’d bring Sherlock’s brain to a screeching halt. Seriously though, if Sherlock was unthinkingly making innuendo then John wanted to be an officially single man quickly to encourage Sherlock to think about how to woo him, so Mycroft had better be working on the Mary and her blasted confidante problem.

Still no sign of the disappearing detective John began reading the morning paper to distract himself from thinking about the future when Sherlock almost bounced into the deserted snack bar.

 “I must have something before getting on the train.” Sherlock breezed over with a pleased face, black coffee in hand and a Viennese Whirl leaking strawberry jam onto a plate.

 “You got the part?” John remembered that you could never be certain what Sherlock was feeling triumphant about.

 “They pushed a Non-disclosure Act form at me. I signed it. It was very clear that I had succeeded within ten seconds of walking in the room.”

 John grinned. “Brilliant.” _Modest as ever._ “You were ages. They didn’t question your past at all?” Harry had made most of the suggestions about Scott Ashton the stuntman’s uncredited appearances and actor’s credits, he was worrying unnecessarily.

 “Nope. They sent me to another room and introduced me to the writer, Suzy Donnithorpe. She’s re-writing the part. They don’t want a tearful ex-boyfriend sitting on his doorstep now.”

 “Oh, so, what do they want?” John was infected by Sherlock’s enthusiasm. “She’s re-written him as?”

 “You’ll have to wait and see.”

 “Urrggh, when will that be?”

 “They’ll be filming at a little place in the hills, Pont something-or-other-long and Welsh.”

 An hour later they were amongst a small, damp crowd scanning the train station monitors waiting to see which platform their train departed from, then they strode off to catch the train for Paddington. Sherlock spent much of the journey reading up on Greene’s career on John’s laptop and John listened to all the information at a remove.

 “Have you got work tomorrow?” Sherlock asked as they disembarked from the train.

 “A surgery in Kensington. Finish at five. Why?”

 “You need a suit for the posh do.”


	7. "It's for a case"

**Chapter 7** It’s for a case.

  **  
**

“Daniel Craig-ish?” Jules, Sherlock’s tailor, suggested another design for the brief given to him to show the good doctor a formal evening suit. Plain, black, clean in line yet a little distinctive.

 “That sounds good.” John smiled, running his fingers over a sample of fine barathea cloth.

 “Suitable for a man with your trunk and length of leg ratio.” Jules agreed.

 Success. John is strong in the upper body, deceptively strong, there are hard muscles hidden under the casual shirts, the cosy cardigans and jumpers. I know because he can lift me with ease and packs a punch. Compact above the waist, he has long legs. He’s entirely designed to keep up with me at a run and a jump. Why does everything come back to a euphemism for sexual encounters! I haven’t taken a single mind-altering substance since preparing to get Magnussen’s interest. Unless John is dropping a little something extra into my coffee. I think I might actually notice if John suddenly turned into a date-rapist with access to a chemical that turns the libido up to eleven on the dial.

  _He drugged me._  
What did you say, Kitty?  
 _He drugged me._

 

 “Sherlock?” John asked.

 “Hmm?”

 A funny little half-smile from John. “Daniel Craig. James Bond. The ones we watch?”

“Him, that. Yes, but not too tight for you. Give the impression of the strength of your chest and shoulders not the idea that you ordered a size too small. Long V will suit your figure. Black and satin facings, trouser trim and the bow tie to match.”

  _Masculine, dominant without throwing your weight about, John, manly._

 “At last.” John grinned.

 Yes, we have been at my tailor’s for the better part of an hour and a half, I have a meeting scheduled with Mycroft and John hasn’t eaten properly today.

 “Yes, King Hing’s, for dinner. Thank you, _Jack, James?_ Jules.”

 

*******

 

“It’s not going to be easy to get close to Greene. Everyone will want to be seen chatting to him if he’s that popular. He can make an actor’s career in minutes as well as break one.” Sherlock brooded over sweet and sour chicken with chips.

 John swallowed and waved his empty fork in the air. “What are you going to do when you do get close to him?”

 “I’ll know when that happens. More wine.” Sherlock picked up the bottle and hovered it over John’s glass.

 “I might think you’re trying to get me drunk.” John replied. “Or listening when I’m saying your liver doesn’t need a strain putting on it.” The wine in the half full glass at the side of John’s plate, sparkled ruby red, casting a warm reflection on the white linen tablecloth.

 “Help me avoid temptation.” Sherlock responded, pouring slowly from the bottle of one of John’s favourites. The rich red shimmered, roiling in the glass, the scarlet reflection dancing on the white cloth between them.

  _I will never fathom you out. Do you know how interesting that makes you? Interesting enough to spend at least two lifetimes investigating you._ “There is nothing I can do, John, until I’ve spoken to Mycroft. I’m seeing him shortly.”

“Do you think he’ll help?” John asked, seemingly mesmerised.

 “I doubt he can resist.” Sherlock smiled to reassure. “I’ll be late, don’t wait up.”

 

***

 

“How is the pursuit of the inedible by the unspeakable coming along?” Sherlock, standing archly by a table in a deserted fish and chip restaurant, enquired of Mycroft who had left his office in the basement of The Diogenes Club for the off the record meeting. The owner, who had closed the premises for Mycroft, scampered off into a back room.

 Mycroft placed his pen neatly beside a thin ream of papers stacked in front of him on the blue-checked tablecloth. The last man Mycroft had expected, or planned, to see today was Sherlock and it did not bode well for plans that had been agreed and accepted. If one thing grated on his nerves, like nails scratching slowly down a chalkboard, it was changes of plans due to Sherlock behaving like a loose cannon on the deck.

 “I have never been wild about foxhunting.” Mycroft batted his literary knowledge of Oscar Wilde back to Sherlock. There were many little foxes. Those causing minimal trouble could be left running free.

 “No. It seems you prefer that the fox goes to ground and stays there.”

  _Ahh, this rearing its ugly head._ Such a charming little brother, but one who had brought Mary’s confidante to his attention and Mycroft had applied due diligence to unearth the man. His departmental resources had, to Mycroft’s chagrin, failed. It had begun to look as if he would have to admit that embarrassing lack of success except that by raising the topic it was evident that Sherlock now wanted the confidante urgently. Why now? It must concern John. A change of plan with Magnussen could not be allowed. If Magnussen – if Magnussen got his wish to make Sherlock his sexual plaything – if anything happened to Sherlock – it hardly bore thinking about.

 Mycroft’s smile resembled a grimace despite trying not to show his emotions and that irritated him. “I do wish you would desist from interfering, Sherlock. How is your partner in crime, anyway?”

 “If you mean John, he’s stubbornly refusing to return to his criminal wife.” Sherlock half-turned to face away from his brother.

 Sherlock would habitually do the opposite of what Mycroft desired him to do, therein was a way to save face, efficiently deal with finding Mary’s confidante and, with Sherlock after Brendan Green, his little brother would find something that would launch an official investigation into Greene. If Magnussen were to be imprisoned for treason first, that above all else.

Mycroft slid the stack of papers into a zipped pigskin folder. “Doctor Watson and Mary Morstan married, as they wished to. Magnussen believes that you will give me to him as it were, on a plate, does he not?”

 “Yes, to the latter.” Sherlock confirmed, aware that Mycroft was attempting to deflect him from his question. “John gave me the flash drive to read, by the way.”

  _Hasty, so hasty_. “Nothing new, I suppose.”

 Sherlock’s unspoken response told the tale. “The drive was, of course, empty.” Mycroft filled in the blank.

 “Obviously.”

  _Mary, so very possessive. Sherlock on a par with her too_. “Some children never learn to share their toys nicely. Why should I become further involved?”

 “Nice of you to almost admit that Mary’s confidante is a danger.” Sherlock said pointedly.

 Mycroft was aware that the reference also applied his and his brother’s childhood and it was designed to throw Sherlock off balance. Sherlock might get to the point quicker if needled.

 “Her confidante could be anybody. CIA, MI5, a colleague of yours, anyone, hiding in plain sight. She will do anything to keep John. Murder, who knows?” The younger Holmes continued.

The confidante could be a stockbroker’s clerk or a telephone engineer but he could have high connections equally. The murder of a high-ranking government official could be a disaster with long-term international consequences. Mycroft glanced at his brother’s midriff. “That does rather seem to be the case.”

 “I hope,” Mycroft changed tack, “that John is preventing you from personally chasing the criminal classes. It is more his milieu to be of practical assistance to you. You were in Cardiff yesterday. Visiting Doctor Watson’s sister. How charmingly...domestic.”

 “It’s for a case.” Sherlock replied evenly with obvious effort.

 “Brendan Greene, minor sex pest, little brother, you’ll be advising young ladies on employment next.” Mycroft smiled before his face turned stern. “You have a case, Sherlock. Perhaps the Watsons would enjoy a family Christmas. The traditional time of year for goodwill, I believe. Persuade him to reunite with her.”

 “The baby that Mary is carrying isn’t John’s. He told me. She’s unaware that he knows.”

  _Damn._ “I do hope you have enjoyed your little moment of drama.” Mycroft began, straightening the contents of his already neat briefcase. “He hasn’t opened the flash drive, has he?”

 “No, he isn’t interested in knowing what’s on it.” Sherlock replied. “He won’t be persuaded to return to his marriage.”

 It was imperative for the vile newspaper magnate to believe he had Mary at his beck and call and to keep the domino chain intact. John was the best method of keeping Mary from eliminating her confidante before they found him but John could do something foolish under the flag of bravery if he had knowledge of the Magnussen plan, sufficiently foolish to drive it right off the rails. “Persuade Doctor Watson to reunite, temporarily if you must take that course, but…there’s a saying isn’t there? ‘what you don’t know won’t hurt you’.”

 “Ignorance is bliss, unless it kills you when you aren’t looking.” Sherlock artfully concluded the conversation by making for the exit.

 

_Let’s play nicely_. “Sherlock?”

 Sherlock froze for a moment before looking over his shoulder, his hand on the door handle.

 Mycroft waited for a moment. “Everywhere I go your name is mentioned. You are well established in your chosen career. Contrary to your belief that I disapprove of it, I don’t. If there are resources you require, you will let me know. Leave Doctor Watson to handle the practical matters.”

 Sherlock flicked his head in an ambiguous manner and, with aplomb, left the restaurant.

 

Mycroft’s eyes rolled. Sacrifices had to be made. Mummy had insisted on having a family Christmas and it loomed like a black cloud on the leaden horizon growing closer every day. There would be carols and tinsel. And, knowing Sherlock, some explaining to do to Mummy. Still, it was only right that MI5 should pay for the privilege of Sherlock assisting them with matters of their concern. Greene had it coming, the man ought to have been more discreet about marrying a French government official’s daughter for her money then pushing her off a cliff.

 

Cheered up, Mycroft allowed himself a smile of pleasure as he made the phone call to arrange for paper records and money to be transferred into the account of Scott Ashton. Mary’s confidante was definitely one for Sherlock to do the legwork on with John Watson’s help. And John Watson, well, Mycroft imagined the doctor would keep Sherlock amused for a very long time.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 a perfect cure for a hangover

Saturday 29th November – Sunday 30th November

 

The National Independent Film Association’s annual awards evening began at a red carpet to the prestigious hotel gaily decked with flowing, blue silk banners and a variety of flowers, leaving nobody in any doubt that the sponsors were Rivers and Fleur, the leading rival to the producer of the champagne that would not be flowing at the tables.

 Sherlock baulked at the first hurdle; to walk down the centre of the red swathe with hundreds of cameras flashing from a crowd lining both sides of the street. John stood ignoring the squalls of delight from the crowd as the celebrities, who had rolled up in front of them in chauffeured cars, formed themselves into a scattered procession. Sherlock and John stood in a mix of journalists and reporters chattering to each other, or into microphones, while two television presenters looked down the lenses of Steadicams.

 “Just walk and smile and wave.” John advised quietly. Nobody would recognise Sherlock who was wearing blue tinted glasses and the designer stubble he had begun cultivating for the role of the ex-boyfriend.

 “I’ll wait until Mr Rucastle has got going.” Sherlock said as the Producer left his car and stepped out to take his dues. Gail, also leaving the car, spotted Sherlock and John.

 “They’re quite lively.” Gail remarked waving at the crowd. The crowd appreciated the recognition and waved back, or took the opportunity to take a photograph. With camera flashes like sheet lightning, Jeff Rucastle, far better known, garnered his share of attention.

 Rucastle led, and Gail, taking a great deal of attention, sauntered along to allow him the centre stage. In front of them Gloria Scott and Aaron Penge, being generous to their adoring fans, walked down a side of the carpet each alongside the stout, metal barriers responding to the crowd. Maisie Detmold, nominee for Best Actress, held up by an interviewer, made slow progress down the centre of the carpet. As Sherlock turned to check how far John was behind him he was caught in the moment looking, John thought, like a nervous, rising star made of modesty and kittens.

 

Brendan Greene, still in an interview, paused to garner accolades of screams, bending his ear to the voluptuous female news magazine reporter in a floaty, white gown. John had already taken an exceedingly strong dislike to Greene for his treatment of Kitty and pointed out to Sherlock that the man was blatantly taking a sideways look at the presenter’s cleavage. Aware of Greene’s lascivious attention her cameraman was taking tight shots of Greene’s genial, bronzed face framed by immaculately-groomed raven-black hair.

Navigating the wide, red stripe the group were ushered through the hotel. Sherlock stopped, removed his glasses and mopped his forehead as Greene strolled through. It was Greene who brushed against Sherlock’s sleeve and stopped to smile at the taller man. John, closely following, stood aside and appeared to close his ears while minding his charge.

 In the taped interviews Brendan Greene had large, dark eyes that twinkled in a tanned face. A face that looked considerably smoother in a soft light. The man’s graceful and athletic frame, slightly wider and taller than John’s own, brought Greene marginally closer to Sherlock’s eye-level.

“Sssorry, Mr Greene, I didn’t see you." Sherlock faltered. “I mean, I’m in your way. Not I didn’t see you, sorry. Sorry.”

John could hear Tim Goldston’s jittery, panicky apologies for existing to breathe the same air as a great man.

“There’s nothing like a little nerves to pep up a performance.” Greene oozed, his voice as cool and smooth as silk.

“It’s a ridiculous honour to meet you.” Sherlock thrust the hanky into his left trouser pocket like an overgrown schoolboy, picking at his hair with his right hand.

“Nice to meet you.” Greene radiated warmth like a spotlight, gave Sherlock a friendly smile that would have put an actor with stage fright at ease, and offered his hand to shake.

“So unexpected.” Sherlock looked awestruck and shook his hand before Greene moved away to join the waiting usher.

 

“Nice performance.” John whispered.

“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled as Doctor John Hill resumed his place behind Scott Ashton to follow the ushers guiding them to the room laid for dinner service.

 

John found himself tucked away on a table at the side and rear. Scott Ashton, fitted in quietly, without being invisible, seated at a table more centrally located, but also in the rear, with faces that John felt he should recognise but didn’t. For company John had a minder from an agency, a journalist and supporting artiste on a networking mission, and a chauffeur who examined his fingernails and chewed his thumbnail. John understood it was stress and missed Sherlock being there to deduce what was eating at the chauffeur, besides the chauffeur eating at himself.

The short welcome speech after the dinner was prefaced by a proud word from the sponsors. The presenter, Richard Dingwell eagerly enthusing the temperature of the guests up by degrees at each round of nominees. Gloria Scott presented Jeff Rucastle with his crystal and gold-rimmed award for Best Producer. Maisie Detmold, winner of the award for Best Leading Actress in a Film, whose chauffeur John was sitting with, presented Gloria with her trophy for Best Supporting Actress in a Television Series and then, finally Brendan Greene took to the gold and blue glass podium.

 “I’m overwhelmed. Very honoured to receive this award, in a room full of such immense talent that has the courage, and the insight, to take a risk on the highly original, and less commercial, films that enrich the industry. Thank you.” Greene finished his speech, smiling and looking fondly at the award clutched to his bosom.

 Finally, with the awards doled out, the lights came up again to the shuffle of feet and the scrape of chair legs on parquet flooring as low notes under the chatter.

 John caught sight of Harry at a table near the centre of the room when she stood up letting Gail out, John presumed for her to go to the loo. His next sight of Harry and Gail was at Harry’s approach to tip him the wink that there was an after-award celebratory party and to relay that Gail would take them using Jeff’s grey, distinguished limousine.

 

The party, in a penthouse suite, occupied the entire top floor of the Forbes Hotel in Bloomsbury. The suite’s French doors led onto a heated rooftop garden decorated with stainless steel planters of artificial trees twinkling with tiny fairy lights. Greene, as the host, was gracefully moving through the scattered groups.

 “Like bees around a honey pot.” Sherlock muttered turning around to glare at a wall.

 John nudged Sherlock’s elbow as Harry turned around and beckoned him over to the group of four that she was in. Gail smiled and raised a champagne flute.

 “They’ve been talking about me.” Sherlock whispered.

 “Probably. Come on.”

 

Brendan Greene had stood out easily as a man who enjoyed talking to women and was at ease in the company of handsome men even in the video clip interviews that John had seen. In the flesh he seemed to have a knack of making each individual feel singled out in turn with a soothing, hypnotic voice. His features, regular and pleasant gave the impression of natural geniality. An accomplished host, even Greene’s conversation adjusted to whoever he was speaking to, recommending the fruit punch to Harry. “A refreshing alternative to alcohol, and not lacking in flavour.” He became leaned in, as if imparting a secret, “it’s the mint and cinnamon. Gives it the zip.”

 “Thank you, I’ll give it a whirl.”

 “Gail, you’ve been so remiss, hiding away from me in deepest, darkest Wales. Jeff’s been telling me how well Thor Bridge has been received. You have yourself a new face.” Greene’s smiling gaze moved to Sherlock. “The camera’s going to love you, Ash.”

 Sherlock, nursing an empty glass, wiggled bashfully. “I hope so. It’s a great opportunity for me.”

 “John, should I call you Doctor Hill, or is that too formal? You thrive on variety too?”

 “Never a dull moment.” John smiled pleasantly, trying to hide that he didn’t like the way that Greene complimented Sherlock.

 Greene had command of the conversation and only broke off to go to pay attention to Melinda Bettrys when she arrived, which, John noticed, put Sherlock on edge. Sherlock stationed him to keep an eye on the actress so he stuck to her surreptitiously in case her honour required saving, moving out to the garden when she went outside with a young man who had been watching her. The show-biz crowd knew how to party and, despite the music for dancing being loud and lively, John was more than tipsy and ready to sleep by the time Sherlock had a taxi lined up for them.

 

***

Sunday 30th November.

 

John woke late on the Sunday morning suffering from a clanging hangover and made coffee while Sherlock sat silently in his customary chair looking, to say the very least, rough around the edges. John had shaved with the electric razor in his room rather than face his bloodshot eyes staring back at himself in the bathroom mirror. They were both, John observed silently, looking the worse for wear.

 

“How did you get on?” Sherlock asked when John came in, deposited his mug of coffee on the table, and took up his chair opposite.

 John squinted and swivelled his chair out of the glare of the late morning sunshine. “Not bad, I think. You?”

 “Greene held court, charmed everyone. Did you see?”

 “I saw him spinning his threads around Melinda. The girl’s got it bad for him. She was having an argument with some knob about it in the patio thing with a straw roof. There’s no persuading her that Greene is bad news.”

 “No,” Sherlock agreed, “I came away with the same opinion last week.”

 “You went to see her. Last week?”

 “Did someone let a parrot in here?”

 “Funny.” John smiled “My head! God, there was enough champagne to float an Armada.”

 “I cannot say I am surprised.”

 “I did what you asked, watched Melinda.”

 “What? No, the knob! I’m not surprised he couldn’t get through to her either.”

 John suppressed a giggle with little success.

 “What?”

 “Nothing, nothing. You saying ‘knob’. It’s just funny hearing you saying it. It’s a slippery slope, Sherlock, you’ll be saying ‘Fuck’ next.”

 John saw Sherlock freeze up and his brain going offline. Did John regret that sentence which escaped from his thoughts? Not in the least. All he could do was wait for the restart. For thirty seconds he expected. Half a minute to muse on hearing Sherlock swear in bed. In his fantasies at least. He was almost certain that there was sexual compatibility. Not as filthy as John’s fantasies, but it didn’t matter, the rest would be more than enough. Yeah, there was just something appealing about throwing Sherlock into a spin, to take Sherlock apart, hold him, hold him safe and bring Sherlock back down to earth with love and care. Then he did regret teasing Sherlock like that.

 “Sherlock? So, how did you get on with Greene?”

 The detective blinked and shifted in his chair, his eyes then fixed upon John. “Greene? Wonderful. I’m invited to a Valentines night party. You’re also invited, of course.”

“That sounds good to me.” John smiled neutrally and picked up his coffee, taking a sip of the comforting liquid to hide his quite stupid fixation on the man with a most precisely balanced mind. February 14th was a disappointingly long ten weeks away.

 “You are still decided on divorcing Mary?” Sherlock asked.

 “Yes, of course.” John’s mug paused at his chin. “I don’t suppose Mycroft has found her mystery lover, or is that a secret? I’m not going to go looking for him, in case anyone’s worried.”

 “I know you aren’t the sort of man to go after him in vengeance. Mycroft had limited information. I’ve been through Mary’s social media. If he is on it - he’s hidden himself well.”

 “She wants him, she can have him, he’s welcome to her.” John shrugged. These things happened. Practically half the clients that came to the door came with some variation of relationship trouble. He had a feeling Sherlock was skirting around to say something. He hoped it was connected to Saint Valentines Day.

 “John, if I asked you to do something for me, you would do it?” Sherlock asked.

 The cautious tone alerted John as it sank his hopes, yet Sherlock never asked anything that was unimportant. “Yes. If it’s in a good cause. I’m your man.”

 “It’s an excellent cause. To save a life.” Sherlock said with gravity.

 “Whose?” John asked, alert, calmly lowering his coffee.

 “Mary’s.”

 “Mary’s!” John’s mug rattled on the table in his haste to put it down. Coffee slopped over the rim in a trickle, seen and ignored. It was untenable to stay in the marriage, they were incompatible, he didn’t even like her, he felt stuck with the wedding ring on his finger until there was a divorce, his life on hold, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t help her out of grave trouble. “What do you want me to do?”

 “I want you to invite her for Christmas dinner with my parents. On Christmas Day.”

 That was the last thing John had expected Sherlock to ask. He sat stunned. “You don’t usually go your parents for Christmas.”

 “We all have to make sacrifices.” Sherlock replied, sombrely.

 John let out a breath. “I’ll collect payment from you for this, if I remember.”

 It seemed to John that Sherlock slipped away into his Mind Palace as the detective’s hands formed a steeple in front of his lips and he closed his eyes. One moment they talked and joked and the next Sherlock would switch tracks to whatever was on his mind. John wondered how Sherlock coped with taking on so much, his problem and Mary’s, Tim and Kitty’s, Melinda’s, Greene. And Lady Smallwood and her husband’s problem, the shark Magnussen.

 

John went for a shower and, in an effort to calm his own brain, blocked out his problems. One, though, kept intruding like a bad smell from a drain. If there was to be a relationship, and John was certain there would be, at the right time, when they could both focus on it, they might as well get a couple of things straight. Intimacy. He didn’t want Sherlock to keep all these problems to himself, they concerned him. Secondly, he didn’t want to distract Sherlock from the work when so many people relied on Sherlock to solve their problems. He made coffee and returned to the sitting room with it.

 

**

Sherlock surveyed the previously unimaginable new landscape. His experiments had given him incontrovertible evidence that John desired a relationship. John excited him mentally and physically, he could not deny it. It was also entirely logical to enter into such a relationship.

John drew him into flirting. Sex had never been of the slightest interest to Sherlock, now he yearned to feel John’s warm fingers on as meagre an amount of skin as his wrist again. He could make that happen as easily as he had manufactured bumping into Greene. That idea made an offensive noise in his ear. The sex would feel manufactured, predictable, dull. It wouldn’t be real unless John made it happen. John deserved nothing less than the best. He’d devise a method to find out what John wanted and provide the conditions for that to happen, but for John to initiate it. Logically the precursor would be to ensure that John knew he had consented to John being in charge of ‘the practical matters’.

 Unlike Magnussen. Sherlock could almost feel his skin crawling remembering Magnussen’s sweaty fingers holding his wrist and stroking his hand. _‘A woman’s hand?’_ So sedated that he had been forced to endure Magnussen’s repulsive fondling. The Dane’s game was forced business and forced sexual submission. It was all about ownership.

Brendan Greene was a man of the same sexual appetites as Magnussen but viler, scheming and nastier. Forcing submission, sex without consent, rape by drugging, forcing his victims to do things, including sexual acts, filming his victims for the purpose of blackmail – like Magnussen so he could enjoy watching their revulsion, humiliating them, using psychological and emotional intimidation, resorting to threats of violence. Using violence. Trapping his unsuspecting victims with a façade of charm and a promise of making dreams come true. What a piece of work!

 Magnussen first. Or Mary and John would be his victims, himself forced too. _John would kill, and possibly dismember, Magnussen before John would allow the newspaperman close enough to rape me_. And Mycroft, he had to protect his brother from Magnussen also.

 The nightmare he had months ago was Mary killing John for not being focussed solely on her. At least one of John’s dates had blown John out for having to compete with Sherlock Holmes for John’s attention. He’d have to send John back to Mary and, maybe John could discover one tiny clue about who her confidante was in order to unearth him from his fox-hole.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes unaware that he had closed them. John had showered, had brought coffee in and John, ready to work in fresh jeans and his new royal blue shirt, was going to the kitchen to look for biscuits.

 

“You were busy.” John said.

 “Thinking about Christmas Day. John, I want you to prepare a few words, simple words. Tell Mary that you forgive her. She expects that you will.”

 John stopped in his tracks in the centre of the room and performed an about face. “Oh, great! So, _that’s_ why she hasn’t texted or phoned me. She’s expecting _me_ to go back to her, cap in hand. How’s that going to save her life? Because you know what it means if she accepts, don’t you?”

 “Only until I find her confidante.”

 “You have no idea of what you are asking. Do you?”

 “I’m working on that. Mycroft is working on that too.”

 John spun on his heel and took two strides away. “Dear. Gods,” he turned abruptly, “will you, just for once, answer a question. Tell me what the HELL is going on. How will that save Mary’s life?”

 Sherlock could swear that his hair ruffled in the volcanic wind of John’s frustrated plea. “Because she loves you.”

 John tottered to his chair and thumped heavily into it, pushing the heel of his hand hard across his eyebrow. “That’s not love, Sherlock, that’s…it’s warped.”

 “It’s what it is. And it has put her in danger.”

 “You told me to trust her. Not to change the subject or anything.”

 “I told her what she wanted to hear and I had to tell you to trust her while Mycroft was working in the background.”

 “In case you didn’t survive. Do you know how close you were to meeting your maker?”

 “I made me, John.”

 “You made yourself an annoying sod.”

 “I am merely annoying? I’ll have to try harder.” A smile played on Sherlock’s lips.

 John laughed, dropping his head, relaxing. “Ow. You’re a perfect cure for a hangover. Not. Go on, anyway.”

 “In law, you, as her husband, are in a privileged position to choose how to deal with the problems of her past. Her confidante - it’s not a one-way street with him. Mary will have enough over him that he’ll lie low, unless she’s in immediate danger of being exposed.”

 “How, and when, did you know about her past?”

 “For certain? When Magnussen visited me in hospital as I was coming round. He told me enough for me to deduce that Mary had a past and since none of her wedding guests had known her for more than five years I deduced that she had assumed the identity of Mary Morstan five years ago. None of her wedding guests are suspects. I vetted all of them before the wedding.”

 “Vetted them? I thought you were, I don’t know what I thought you were doing. Organising them. Anything else?”

 “Magnussen phoned the ambulance.”

 “Bloody hell!”

 “It was to his advantage. Don’t imagine that Magnussen has anything but his own interests at heart.”

 “Or she hers.”

 “There is one other thing you should know. Mary is a linguist, and, being short-sighted, she can lip-read.”  


	9. Thor Bridge

Chapter 9 Thor Bridge

  **Saturday 13 th December**

Sherlock has nerves, I can see it in the way he shakes the tension away, pulling off his scarf, mentally getting into gear as we find the pub in Pontrhydfendigaid where the minor cast are booked to stay for filming. I’ve hired us a car from Aberystwyth, a coastal town with immense, fat seagulls strutting around the railway station car park. We’ve been up at an ungodly hour to be there for eleven in the morning. It's worth it though. The scenery is as unlike a cityscape as it could be, green and lush, scattered houses and villages. The traffic is sporadic and fast as if nobody has time to loiter on the almost empty roads. Maybe that’s just the motorists. I’ve seen people standing chatting, a tractor parked outside a shop and a chap driving a horse hitched up to a little, open carriage. Sherlock said it was training for harness racing. I think he’s been looking all that up on the way.

Our accommodation is Bed and Breakfast in a neat, square, white public house. He’s assumed the persona of Ash, the designer stubble for the Awards evening went west, they decided to make the character he’s playing, ‘Adrian’, the ex-boyfriend of the heroine, English and clean-shaven. It’s news to me, maybe Sherlock forgot to tell me, or because he likes to keep some secrets back to spring on me as a surprise. Either way he still won’t tell me about his character, other than that. I can’t complain, he’s been frank with me about important stuff.

 

The landlord, Al, is round, smiling and informal. “Mr Hill and Mr Ashton? Aha,” he looks down his black ledger, tracing his finger down the handwritten lines. “You can fight each other for who has the king and the single camp bed.”

 “Oh.” Sherlock said as if he hadn’t considered that there would be a choice to be made. “I’ll take the camp bed. Probably won’t sleep anyway.”

 My attempt to argue is met with an imperious hand. “You are driving.” Sherlock reminds me.

The landlord behaves as if he’s used to strange guests and simply shows us to the rooms. The camp bed has been squashed into the landlord’s conservatory with a view onto the garden. I ponder if Sherlock will be found sitting in the garden like an oversized, business-suited gnome. Possibly with the golden retriever which is stretched out on its side on the lawn.

 “Just ignore him, he’s a bit off with strangers. He won’t bite.” Al says.

Would it be fine if I bite? I’m a wreck. Innocent remarks trigger me to have sexual thoughts about Sherlock. Today is okay, it’s not really The Work.

Sherlock eyes the golden dog without moving as he stares out of the glazed door at the garden. “Fine,” he says.

“There’s a loo next door.” Al seems to decide that Sherlock can find the cloakroom and turns with a smile. “Yours is up the stairs number 3, en-suite. Before I forget, coffee is on at one for everyone by order of the management, in the dining room. Gail Weeks, that is, not me.”

Sherlock nods faintly as he continues looking outside. He’s gonna be in his Mind Palace soon. He has that distant look.

 

At one-o-clock there is a crowd chattering in the small dining room packed with every chair the pub possesses, judging by the ill-assorted jumble. Sherlock sits in a corner wearing thick black reading specs, reading his copy of the script until ferried out by a young woman efficiently rounding up the cast from her list. He’s taken in a people-carrier sort of car. I’m allowed to tag along on board a hired, twelve seater minibus with the crew. The bus drones up ever narrower, winding and steep roads which remind me of the mountain roads in Afghanistan. We pass through unexpectedly dark, cold woodland. I’m afraid we might all have to get out and push the bus just before we turn into a chipped slate track and a white gravelled car park at the end where the trailers are parked up.

 

There’s an odd, black tent sheltering cameras and monitors and anything else that might go up in smoke if it rains. Sherlock goes straight into the trailer to get into costume leaving me to amuse myself walking up grassy steps through a breezy terraced garden. Turning to look back there is a tall, slender man with slicked down auburn hair walking with cat-like grace. I look carefully as it’s only on seeing the familiar intense way he hunts for something I recognise the stranger as my friend searching for me. I jog back down to Sherlock, tanned, dressed in a very 1940’s white shirt and pale beige suit just in time to exchange a smile then Gail, who is directing, takes 'Ash' to walk into a tidy cottage by the side of a pond reflecting the blue sky and picture-perfect white clouds.

 I can see that the difficulty in getting to this spot is outweighed by its photogenic qualities with the backdrop of green hills and lawn surrounding the chocolate box cottage and pond. There’s a protocol here, unlike the Awards evening, talk, joke, smile and affectionately touch everyone you are acquainted with until there is a walk through rehearsal and a take in silence.

 “It’s taken them two years to get the funding together, one take and it’d better be right.” Sherlock informs me when he’s finished with his two minute scene. I think he’s squeezing every moment for data for future use and is enjoying it. He’s still keyed up but in a good way like when he’s solving a case and has the data ready to impress me with. There’s the absorbed man-child again.

The next scene involves two actors dressed as policemen groping about in the pond without a rehearsal first. Runners have a supply of scalding hot tea or coffee in takeaway cups for us. After a few minutes Sherlock detaches himself from my side to do his scene with Gloria. She's in a pretty floral beige and pink dress as Alice, the Pretty Lady, she looks younger the way her hair is wavy. It dawns on me that Harry does a fantastic job of making actors look like different people. She's got a gift for it, one she has worked to develop, and now I see how it's paid off, why she's somebody in her world. It reminds me the way Sherlock has a talent and and puts everything he has into what he does. I've seen him pacing, not eating, not sleeping and straining his brain as well as having those quick flashes of intuition or measured insight that dazzle me. They’ve asked Sherlock to remove his jacket and Harry has been called over to him. They huddle and beckon a runner who speeds away and returns at a fast clip as Sherlock rolls up his white shirt sleeves to sit on the doorstep. That seems to be exactly what they want because everyone moves away. Harry comes to stand next to me her face happy and warm.

“Rolling,” calls the cameraman. I could hear a pin drop.

 Sherlock’s eyes seek me out, then his face, his whole being, changes into that of a stranger again, into Adrian, an exotic stranger.

 “Action!”

 He’s done what was asked, he has transformed himself into someone else. An exotic, hypnotic, magnet for the eyes, lighting up a cigarette and holding it in his long, slender fingers with a cool, deliberate, slow gesture he inhales. His cheeks suck in drawing attention to the planes of his zygomatic arch and the hollows under his cheekbones, the angles that sweep on his long, handsome face, his eyelids are heavy, doe eyes. His graceful, almost feminine, hand moves away from his face casually, artfully angled. I’m looking at sizzling decadence, a diagonal line of almost effeminate, dangling narrow wrist with a strong, lithe, masculine forearm. The smoke curls slowly from his cupid lips, rising upwards in a swirl, pulling my eyes from his full mouth to his perfect nose to his eyes I don’t know what everyone else sees but I’m seeing what Sherlock cannot change; intelligence, sex and beauty all in one.

 “My god, but he’s good.” Harry’s hand slips under my arm and her fingers wrap around my bicep with an affectionate squeeze. “Isn’t he!”

  “Yeah.” I can hardly breathe. My voice has shrivelled to a croak.

 She smiles at me knowingly as Sherlock breaks the spell, standing with a smile for me before the crew take him in the door. One perfect take.

 “We’re not…”

 “I believe you. But he _was_ looking at you,” she says and gives me another squeeze before hurrying away to an actress in costume leaving me standing with an open mouth.

 I know he was looking at me. We’ve made love with our eyes. There has always been something in the air between us. A tension. Things not said. My lungs do a quick check for oxygen while my heart thuds. We haven’t flirted since I teased him about saying ‘fuck’, he’s been cold almost, detached as usual, and we’ve been easy together, smiled and talked but that smile, that performance too, but that smile, that was just for me. He’s just said without a word that there is something between us, but he's keeping it cool, keeping a safe, proper distance between us until I’m free. I’m happy to play that game.


	10. The man who owns my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the turning point where we can soon leave 'His Last Vow' behind and forge off in a new, brighter, happier though, for the boys, a still perilous direction.

CHAPTER 10  The man who owns my heart.

**Thursday 25 th December.** Christmas Day

 

John. You are the man who owns my heart. The exception to my rule. Mycroft will allow me a minute or two of as near to privacy as will be possible with you before I have to board a private plane to take responsibility for… my actions. Shall I say I don’t regret shooting Magnussen. I made that choice having been dealt a hand of losing cards. I regret not being clever enough to avoid having to do so. So many things never said in words to you. Never a right time to say them.

I don’t know what we could have been. I only know what I would have been. Yours. All of me, yours, in a relationship as your…how can it be said, John, so that you will understand? Give you what Mary didn’t, my full name, not the edited version, the whole of me. Tell you the truth so that you don’t wait for me, so that you won’t wait for a miracle again. Tell you to trust that Mycroft will continue to try to find Mary’s confidante.

I will try not to be emotional and I will not leave you the way I tried to do so before, by trying to break your faith in me, I want to you to see the better part of me, the warm part that loves you but I’ll try not to let you get more upset.

If you cannot be in love with Mary and you can’t give your love to me now, then go, go find someone to give your love to. Live. Take the gift of life and live that life. Do that for me, do this one last thing for me. Then it’ll be easier for me too. And, know this, John, you gave me the best time of my life. The very best of times.

 


	11. Changes and Turns

CHAPTER 11 Changes 

Wednesday 31st December. New Year’s Eve

“Ready, John?” Greg drags me out of the house for a New Year’s Eve pint with the Yard. Mary is staying in, she can’t drink and doesn’t want to go out with half of Scotland Yard. God, there’s a surprise. Sherlock must be going off his head. I almost wish that I hadn’t been so bloody insistent on knowing what was going on, but I’m coping. Maybe Greg is right, getting out of the house will do me good. I’ll just dodge off to the toilets to skip the auld lang syne bit. 

The pub is the usual haunt. Sherlock and I came in here on my stag night. They’ll never see Sherlock the ways I have, charming, funny, contemplative, puzzled, throwing up, okay, that’s not funny but very human and ordinary. It’s the same, packed, noisy place. Almost everyone appears to know everyone else, except Emily Murcher, filling in for maternity leave, from Manchester. She likes it, anyway, she’s applied to transfer to Greg’s Division after she passes her Detective Sergeant’s examinations. 

“The loo.” Greg suggests, firmly. It’s a bit odd. I wonder if he knows that Sherlock was arrested. I hope he doesn’t offer condolences. I’m not ready for being the object of pity. He wouldn’t do that to me. And he doesn’t as he presses a small, heavyweight envelope to my hand. I look into his face for an indication of what he’s given me.  
“One way to find out.” He suggests in a gravel tone. 

My heart rose like one of those birds that rocketed into the sky at Grimpen, as I ripped the envelope open, only for it to plummet into the pit of my stomach on finding the note was not from Sherlock. I don’t think my disappointment could have been clearer. Greg, being a good friend, his eyebrows knit and he shifts uncomfortably for me.  
“It’s not so bad news.” I say, and read the few spare lines again: 

‘At nine-o-clock tomorrow morning walk, alone, to The Talbot Hotel, Malet Street. Do not speak about this to anyone. Now hand your phone to Detective Inspector Lestrade. You may collect it tomorrow. If asked where your phone is, you will say that you have lost it.’

Mycroft might as well have just signed his name and had done with it. The note doesn’t stipulate that I can’t show it to Greg. I think Greg knows that Sherlock’s being held somewhere, in some civil service building. Maybe River House. Mycroft knows he won’t run, but I suppose it’s for the sake of appearances. I pass my phone over and, as someone’s coming into the bathroom, hastily tear the note to shreds and flush it down the pan.

Thursday 1st January New Year’s Day

Leaving Mary asleep, I slipped out of the door to a cold, fresh, morning and empty streets. I suppose I expected to get to the hotel, or for a black jag to draw alongside me. I didn’t even see the blue car pull up at the kerb a little way ahead. Drawing level with the driver’s door opens.  
“Hello, John. I’ve to give you a lift,” says the driver, very sweetly.

It takes me a couple of seconds to place the face. “Not-Anthea. That would be good.”

“Hop in.” She smiled as if delighted that I recognised her and remembered her name. I haven’t remembered her name because I don’t even know what it is. I know I smiled wryly as I skirted around the bonnet and let myself into the blue leather interior.

“I take it this is unofficial?” 

Not-Anthea smiled in a bright way. “Not in the least bit official. John.”

I think she is enjoying this swerve from the entirely legitimate path. Soon the swerve is into a new brick, housing estate. She drops me at a racing green, plastic, double-glazed door that opens before I’ve pressed the bell. If I had been expecting a secret office that only Mycroft had the keys to I would have been disappointed as I pass the smart-suited security guard and into a very ordinary sitting room.

“How are you?” Mycroft asks, wearing a disarming smile except it’s clear I’m not expected to proffer an honest answer. It’s just as well since ‘gutted’ isn’t an answer I’d give and I’m here to see Sherlock not have a conversation with his brother.

“He’s not here, if that’s what you were about to ask,” Mycroft drawls.

Yeah, I was, thanks for that. Perhaps it is Mycroft’s way of assuring me that he’s smarter than I think he is. Ranting at him that he should have known that no secret vaults lay hidden in the bowels of Appledore might make me feel better but Sherlock didn’t know and I didn’t know until it was too late. Goodness only knows how many people would be breathing a sigh of relief that Magnussen had taken all his nasty knowledge with him to the grave. Personally, I’d reinstate the displaying of the skulls of criminals in medical schools just to see people throw rotten eggs and mouldy tomatoes at his head.

“I wanted to tell you myself,” he continues in his upper crust diction. “I have arranged for you and Mrs Watson to be collected tomorrow at ten in the morning and taken to an airfield to see my brother. This is the best arrangement I can make.”

Sharp disappointment cuts through me again. Fear. And anger. Ranting at him won’t change what happened or the future. I am not sure if I have the energy to expend losing my temper. I need to know why Sherlock will be at an airfield. “What happens next?”

“We are still eager to extricate Mrs Watson from the reach of her enemies,” Mycroft assures.

“And as soon as that’s done you can extricate me.” I never said I was a nice man.

“That is the plan, unless you wish otherwise.”

Sherlock has probably told Mycroft that I know Mary’s baby isn’t mine. He has to know and that’s humiliating but I won’t show it. Unless I wish otherwise? Can he seriously imagine that I’m going to change my mind? He’s unbelievable. A scoff rather says what I’m thinking. “I don’t wish otherwise.”

It has sunk in that wherever Sherlock is being taken to will not be easy for me to visit and it’ll be for years. What’s his state of mind like! No, no, no, we haven’t finished, not by any stretch of the imagination. Don’t you think that for one single moment, you idiot. We aren’t done. We have a case - and if I have to go and stop Brendan Greene on my own I’ll do it, on my own for both of us. Is it a Holmes family trait or something for prevaricating, for not answering a straight bloody question. You can just piss off, Mycroft. “Where’s he going?”. 

“I am not at liberty to say, Doctor Watson. You will be able to speak to him yourself tomorrow.”

No, that’s just Mycroft. He can tell me about lost top secret plans but he’s avoiding my question. I suppose it’s some consolation I’ll have some time with the idiot. I should be grateful for that much. I nod and leave Mycroft and become aware that my knees are wobbly and my feet aren’t feeling the ground beneath them. Not-Anthea hands me my phone and drops me a short walk from my flat. Mary accepts, without suspicion, that I have been to Greg’s house to retrieve my phone. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. I wish it didn’t have to come at all.

**

Friday 2nd January

I thought it was a bad week. Today is worse. 

It’s a grey tarmac apron of a military airfield. My wife swept up at an indecent speed to hug and peck Sherlock on the cheek in a gesture of farewell. It’s all false and it’s all real, all at the same time. When Mary detaches herself from Sherlock, his smile is plastic. I really don’t want to do this.

Sherlock asks to speak with me. Privacy is relative to how well the woman I am married to can lip read from the distance she is standing away from me and the man I would die for and can do nothing to save.

Somehow Sherlock and I get through the last conversation we will have without saying anything and saying everything. He extends his hand to me and it takes me the longest time to make my arm move, to reach my hand forward to clasp his hand and shake it. I’d do anything to make this short time last. I’d do anything to tell him I love him, hug him, tell him to send for me and I’ll be there. He knows that I hope.

“To the very best of times, John,” he says. 

That’s how I feel. How he feels. I’m choked by the knowledge that we both gave each other the very best of times of our lives. Then he’s gone and my heart has gone with him. There is a hollow cavity, a void where my heart lived. The game is over for Sherlock and me. It’s just going to continue with Mycroft being the lead player. Sherlock is right. As always. I chose to side with him and this is where the road has taken us. I’ll see it through until he comes back, because who is to say that Mycroft’s right. 

Then I realise that something has happened when Mycroft gets out of the car.  
Somehow Moriarty has been on every telly in the country. Telly’s been hijacked. It’s a blur for me after that until Sherlock is back and is standing by Mycroft’s car. Moriarty is dead and he’s back. Sherlock is acting as sober as a man who has taken drugs can act. Me? I’m going to fight anyone who wants to stop me taking Sherlock back to 221B.


	12. Turns and Changes.

CHAPTER 12 Turns and Changes

**Friday 2nd January.**

  
“My brother requires medical care, Mrs Watson, I will see you home.” Mycroft's mouth tightened into an insistent line, gesturing for John and Sherlock to flit into his black Jaguar.

Sherlock pulled his gloves on.

“I insist, Sherlock.” John said firmly as Sherlock scoffed noisily. Pulling open the door of the car, a waft of the expensive grey leather interior swirled into John's nostrils.

John held the door as Sherlock folded himself in two, wrapping his coat around himself. John noted the flame in his friend's eyes. He walked briskly around to the passenger door and slid in with barely a backward glance to the wife and brother already getting into the saloon.

He waited until the tension had evaporated from Sherlock’s spare figure to ask his questions, exhaling slowly and with deliberation when the car hit the main road and sped up.

“I’m disappointed. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. As your friend, and your doctor, drugs aren’t worth the candle. No, wait.” John saw his friend thinking of a riposte, a pained objection, perhaps an excuse, something to shut down this conversation. John fended it off.. “I know why you said what you said, but you told me you only took them for a case.”

“That is accurate.” Sherlock replied, tiredly, closing his eyes and letting his head nestle on the headrest.

That was all that John wanted to say. He didn’t want to be hard on Sherlock.

-o0o-

The familiar red awning of Speedy’s café hoved into view, John hooked the keys from Sherlock to let them in and Mrs Hudson, who seemingly happened to be in hearing distance came out. Sherlock faltered in the doorway for a fleeting moment and fled upstairs.

“I wondered who was coming in.” Mrs Hudson surveyed John’s concerned face.

“Don’t let anyone up, not Mycroft or Mary, not anyone.” John replied, firmly, looking after Sherlock’s back turning the stairs and vanishing from his sight.

“He’s overdone it again, I can tell.”

“He’s practically indestructible.” John assured, making light of the situation. “I’ll make tea.” That was Mrs Hudson’s remedy for all ills. “He needs rest, that’s all. No visitors.”

“Look after him.” she said as John scurried upstairs taking the steps two at a time.

Sherlock had made it to the brown leather settee discarding his gloves and scarf in a litter behind himself and had flopped on his side facing outwards having not even grabbed a cushion for his head. He looked like he had used the last of his energy, his eyes closed, his shoes still on, the man had made no effort to make himself comfortable at all. John knew the sulk of a cold shoulder, a back turned, shutting him out. Sherlock was doing the opposite, open outward, not hiding behind a façade of strength.

John crossed the room quickly, pulling a cushion from the foot end of Sherlock, and shifted to the head end, lodging himself on the corner of the end of the settee, placing the green, patterned cushion on his lap at the convenient height for Sherlock’s head. Sherlock took the place for his head like a drowning man might take a life ring, immediately, easing his shoulder against John’s leg.

John felt the fear of losing Sherlock. He could only imagine that Sherlock had felt the same way about losing him. Harry had anaesthetised herself to the departure of Clara with alcohol, he bottled his stress up and let it eat him, just the way the chauffeur at the awards evening chewed himself up, until he vented or currently partially relieved his sexual frustration with a damned good wank. And Sherlock over-worked or dosed himself up. That was going to change if he had anything to do with their lives.

“John.”

“Shush.” John replied, firmly, he placed his left hand chastely on his friend’s shoulder and felt a tremor of relief in the breath Sherlock drew in and let out slowly. “No explanations.”

John let calm descend like a balm for them both before he spoke. There were hidden dangers and they were both stretched to cope.

“We stand together. Can you hear me, Sherlock?”

John would love to be the anchor for Sherlock to keep moored to. Right now they had to be other's rocks to moor to.

“Mm.” Sherlock choked out.

“Talk to me.”

_Talk, communicate. No fucking great barrier or gap between us. I need it. You need it._

“Together.”

John looked straight ahead, he wanted to see Sherlock in all his raw, messy humanity but not like this, laid here exhausted.

“Yeah. Well, you knew that, genius. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“’S an illusion.”

John looked down at the illusion and saw nothing of the sort. Water had trickled across the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. John's own eyes blurred.

“Yeah, just a magic trick, you do spout such crap for a genius, you know.”

John squeezed the shoulder under his fingers. Sherlock let out a bittersweet laugh. John’s other hand went to rest on the crown of his friend’s head, his fingers pushing into his hair. He let them rest there. Sherlock’s scalp warming under his palm. Sherlock breathed in, tensed and then seemed to melt under his hands. Their troubles seemed to be lifted and carried away by osmosis, smoothing down the jangled nerve endings.

Sherlock sighed a miniscule but definite sigh of relief, or pleasure, slowly turning his face up to John’s.

“I will be annoying.”

Sherlock moving his head pulled the soft strands of hair through John’s half-closed fingers. John’s desire growled softly and appreciatively as Sherlock’s eyes closed and Sherlock prolonged the experience until the last strand of auburn fell from John’s hand.

“Yeah, sure you will.”

John felt like repeating this, to feel the silk tickling the sensitive groove between his fingers. His phone bleeped, breaking his attention from the peaceful smoothness of Sherlock’s relaxed face, those plush lips parted from drawing in a breath and the stillness as Sherlock held the air in his lungs. John realised he had forgotten to breathe too.

“Phone.” Sherlock’s eyes opened as he sat up suddenly, a leg and arm flying out for balance.  “That will be Mary gone into labour.”

John formed the word ‘What!’ in his mind, doing a double-take before finding his phone and staring at the screen.

“Well, go. And make sure you have a DNA sample taken.” Sherlock instructed.

John’s mouth still open, he remained uncertain. Sherlock’s face being a sickly shade of grey-green he didn't want to leave him.

“John, I’m fine.” Sherlock said, even if didn't look it John was sure Sherlock suddenly felt nauseous.

Deciding, John jumped to his feet. He felt reassured because he’d seen much worse.

“I’ll text or something.” John promised.

 -o0o-

**Saturday 3rd January 7am**

John texts me after several hours when I am still in my pyjamas, yawning and wondering if he slept last night. Mother and baby are doing well, he has a DNA sample which Molly is responsible for and he is going home to sleep. How am I? Grateful that John’s lecture on drugs was short and came from his warm heart not a cold disapproving mind. Delighted to discover that there is a way of touching me that John likes.

‘I’m well. Thank you.’ I type but add ‘Working’ before sending my reply.

By working I mean I’m reviewing everything again looking for something I must have missed. Looking again at the coloured filing cards on every surface. I am clearly in Mrs Hudson’s good books for eating toast and marmalade. She seems genuinely fascinated that marmelada was a Portuguese quince and honey jam recipe and has nothing whatsoever to do with Mary, Queen of Scots allegedly having a headache.

“Or a baby.” Mrs Hudson chirps while clearing the plates. “He’s cheered you up, I see. Whatever you two were up to yesterday. You looked quite peaky when you came in.”

If marmalade cured migraine John would be writing prescriptions out for it. He should prescribe his healing hands on a patient’s skull instead. Then again that wouldn’t be a good idea or I would have less of him than I think have been promised.

What were we up to? Nothing. Nothing that John could feel guilty about doing while not-so-legally married. He did nothing that was not platonic. However, my scalp tingles pleasantly at the ghost of his touch. He can do that forever. Quite frightening that John can have this effect on me, to make me feel anticipation. I saw the change in the sharpening of his eyes. A very fast reaction. Instant like a switch flicking on. He liked it.

How great the temptation is to have a little more than a deduction. To know, instead of imagine, his fingers in my hair keeping me exactly where he wants me. Quite nerve-wracking to expose my flaws, let John all the way in. Oh damn. The arrow rising in the south of his pyjama bottoms was pointing the way to the bathroom. John could destroy him in the space of an hour on a case if those steel-blue eyes sharpened into an expression of desire. He trusted John wouldn’t distract him while working. On the other hand the promise of John’s hand sliding up his quivering thigh later would surely to galvanise him into thinking faster, running theories, joining the dots on a simple case to get back to the flat to.. bathroom now.

Touching myself, imagining it is your hand stealing up my thigh, wishing you would touch me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Saturday 3rd January 8am.**

Tony Pye, short in stature, but nonetheless competent in his position as his employer’s trusted go-fer, knocked nervously on the office door. Thick, brown hair curling at the ends dropped to his grubby collar. He was regretting ever having anything to do with the man who ruled the roost but he was not in the least expecting to get himself out of his predicament unless it was in a coffin. For a coffin substitute half a dozen bin bags or a watery grave in a quarry, he thought, waiting for an answer to his knock on the toughened safety glass window of the half-glazed door.

“Come.”

Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension there ‘Porky’ Pye walked into the room carrying the paperwork for his boss and held it out to the man.

“What kept you?” the tall, strongly built, dirty blond growled with irritation, nodding to the black plastic in-tray on the desk.

The text he had been waiting for had arrived later than he had expected. Pye knew because he had sent it on. The boss was always ill-tempered when his orders were not carried out punctually and correctly. Pye swallowed. If his boss knew why the text had been delayed he could make his will out now. He had personally spent hours too, ensuring that the heavy iron door to the mill’s maintenance room would open promptly when the bars were slid across. His excuse was that the door had to close easily.

“I was seeing to the room, sir. The door was knackered, it was thick of rust. It works fine now.”

“And the scumbag? Shinwell?”

“Yes, sir. Dealt with. The box is in the fridge.”

A small cardboard box containing two ears. Two ears severed after death which Porky didn’t want to see again. He was counting on his boss to not do more than look at the bloodless, white lumps of flesh and cartilage. The man probably wouldn’t even look. Dave Shinwell had been a lifelong friend since they had met at, and played truant from, the shitty school they both detested.

Not listening to orders and carrying them out had consequences to make even a brave man think very carefully about crossing the man at the desk. Nevertheless,Porky had passed himself off as a relative of a dead man, dosed the morgue guy with chloroform, bunged him in a cupboard and had procured a pair of ears from the nearest body on the slab.

It had made him feel sick to savage the cold, blue remains of the poor bloke on the slab and he had taken a risk in doing so only shoring himself up by thinking about the alternative. This bastard in front of him had gone too bloody far ordering him to bump off his best mate after framing him for an art robbery. That was just for starters! Kidnapping a little babbie! The man was a bleeding psychopath and they’d all end up being done for murder.

Chancing it, Porky stole a glance at the phone in his employer’s hands, the text being typed out.

**A little present for you Detective Inspector Lestrade. Do give my regards to Sherlock.**

With a short laugh, the tall, meaty blond pressed Send and leaned back in his black, leather chair. Porky thought his boss was cackling with anticipation of having even more fun sending the next message. The sick bastard.

“Off you go, then. I'm not paying you to stand around all day. Order me that launch and I want Gil Wilson's payment from the pub. He's not going to be allowed to get behind with it, with me.”

"Sir." Pye smiled, exposing nicotine-stained teeth, before leaving on fast feet.


	14. Chapter 14

**Saturday 3rd January 8:52am**

 

The front door opened and closed quietly as Mrs Hudson went out. Just a few minutes later it opened with a thump on the wall, sending a shudder through the wood, the sound echoing up the staircase.

 “Sherlock!” John ran down the hall and stumbled up half of the seventeen stairs two at a time.

 “What’s happened?” Sherlock’s heart jolted as he called out. John, his face grave and pale, stopped as Sherlock rushed out to him.

 “Charlotte’s been snatched. Her baby. From hospital.” John panted. He turned for the door, Sherlock following without stopping for his coat.

 The Watson’s car, slewed to the kerb, stood with the boot stuck out into the street. A car squeezed past holding up the number eleven bus. Both drivers leaned out of their windows to hurl indignant abuse. John’s phone sounded. He stood, rigid with agitation, his finger working over the screen while Sherlock opened the driver’s door.

 “Mary rang, fuck knows where from, she’s not at Whittington.” John stammered over his phone.

 “Wasn’t Mary at Bart’s?”

 “She went to a friend’s; Whittington Hospital was closest for an emergency caesarean.”

 Sherlock drove and, out of the corner of his eye, could see John bowing his head from time to time checking his texts for some word from his wife, gnawing at his thumbnail.

 “She shouldn’t be out of bed, never mind out of hospital!” John braced his legs against the footwell, jamming his back into the seat as they sped along. “She won’t accept any help at all!”

 Cutting through the traffic earned them insults and angry shouts.

 Sherlock stayed silent remembering how furious John had been with him for absconding from hospital. It had been too much to believe that John ever wanted to be more than a friend, a best friend, a lover.

 “She’s incapable of telling the truth.” John ranted.

Sherlock sighed heavily, hoping that if John was remembering Mary telling him a fabricated story about her childhood that it would mean something to him that Sherlock had given him his full name and John had wandered around Sherlock’s childhood home.

John phoned Mary for the third time and had no response. His hand swiped his face but the lines on his brow remained fixed and deep. The car hit the kerb jolting them sideways, when his phone rang.

 “Greg.” John said breathlessly and listened to Lestrade for a few moments. “Shit! Pull over.”

 Sherlock turned his face in alarm as he cut up a bus and turned hard left down the bus lane in front of it. There was a loading bay to pull in to. “What?”

 “Jones has everything thrown at this. Helicopter out, road blocks, the works. Greg’s had a pink phone sent, a text sends regards to you. He’s going to come over.”

 “I didn’t have her pregnant in my model.”

 “What model? You aren’t making any sense. Pink phone, Sherlock!”

 “I ran a computer model in my Mind Palace, on the plane. Emilia Ricoletti headed an organisation. Like the pips, the Moriarty message was a threat. Today sleeper agents rise like ghosts from a mist at a signal or message.”

 “Mary can’t have sent the message, she went into labour because of it.” John’s voice came out hard and emotional.

 “The threat worked on her. Mary’s confidante sent it. He’s taken Charlotte to lever Mary to tell him what he doesn’t know so he can rebuild the cell. She’s gone after him. I can’t be the only one who has a bolt-hole or a place to stash things. That’s where she’ll have gone.” Grim faced, Sherlock, pulled out into the traffic again.

 “Where are we going?” John asked, frowning in confusion.

 “Where we can be found. You steer.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and slapped it on the steering wheel while he took John’s phone over.

 John boggled at navigating with Sherlock’s foot on the accelerator. “Slow down!”

 “Bill.” Sherlock spoke into the phone. “If Mary Watson has been seen I need to know. If she meets anyone, who she speaks to, where she goes. Get the word round.”

 “I need to wait for a lead.” Sherlock took back the wheel and headed the car back to Baker Street.

 

******

**10:34am**

 

Greg Lestrade bounced into 221B and thrust the pink phone over to Sherlock.

 “I’ve had the phone ringing off the hook with people panicking. Mutilated corpse, jewel heist kidnapping, sorry John, and this!” He thumped his fist on the desk making the empty metal fruit basket dance. “It can’t be him. You said he was dead.”

 “Blew his brains out, it’s not him.” John repeated again.

 “Exactly.” Sherlock agreed.

 Mrs Hudson took refuge in the kitchen to make tea while John peered over Sherlock’s arm to look at the text. He pursed his lips and looked to Greg. “The present is the phone, obviously.”

 “Number blocked,” Sherlock breathed. “You need to keep this phone with you and switched on.”

 "You don't already know who this is, do you?" Greg asked, having a sudden lucid moment of suspicion, just as Mrs Hudson brought tea in. John went to help unload the tea tray.

 Sherlock passed the phone back to Greg. “I don't know who, but I know what he is.”

 “No tea for me, thanks, I just called in to show you the phone. Next time.” Greg decided to go back to his office. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

 

-o0o-

**12:28pm**

 

Greg had called to bring Sherlock and John to Scotland Yard as soon as the pink phone came to life again. He had DS Murcher bring them straight to his office.

 “Another message this time a video is attached. The text said ‘Mary, Mary quite contrary’ that’s all. I had IT put the vid on my computer. John, you may not want to see it. It may be, I mean, I know you must have seen a lot of things as a soldier and as a doctor, I’m trying, and failing, to be sensitive here.”

 John sniffed. “It’s okay. I want to see it.”

 “Right. If you’re sure. Sherlock? Whatever you can tell me.” Greg started the playback and stood to the side. Sherlock took up the centre in Greg’s chair with John on his other side, his hand resting on the chair.

 Sherlock concentrated on the images with the mouse on the desk covered by his palm. “There.” Sherlock paused the video. “Those are encaustic tiles. Victorian floor tiles. But..that's old paint, and old gloss paint, there's a peeling layer of paint as well, two.” he let the images run on a little further and paused it again squinting and frowning at the image. “Tube lighting, industrial Seventies lighting.”

 The camera, shaking, blurring the image, moved onto Mary, dressed in black, as Sherlock had seen her in Magnussen’s penthouse flat, sitting on a wooden chair, her hair dishevelled. Sherlock was unprepared for the sight even though he had expected it. Greg glanced at him and focussed on John.

Sherlock heard John’s intake of breath. He pushed his emotions back into their box and re-focussed on the task.

 “She’s alive, not harmed, that’s a good sign.” Greg filled the silence.

 “An industrial building, warehousing, waterside.” Sherlock held his breath as the screen went black. “Greg, I need to run it again with the sound up.” He adjusted the volume himself. “You don’t need to see it again. Either of you.”

 “No, John, come to the canteen, eh?”

 “Yeah, he needs silence to do this.”

 Sherlock watched John follow Greg out of the office. He started the video again, listening with his eyes closed. The short clip ended again and his face dropped with disappointment.

 

******

**1:48 pm**

“Oh, bollocks!” Greg swore as Sally marched over.

 “Howell has just brought Danny Swift in to assist with enquiries. I thought you might want to know. The lift’s gone on the razz, though.” She said a little out of breath. “The engineers are on it now.”

 “Ah, yeah. John, sorry ‘bout this, can you find your own way back. Down the stairs two flights and take the third door. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’ve done this.”

 “Yeah, sure. I’m fine. Don’t think anything of it.” John replied.

 “As long as you are.” Greg answered, leaving John to finish his coffee, and followed Sally out of the staff canteen.

 John pondered about what he had seen. The woman on the video looked like his wife, but there the similarity ended. It was like looking at a stranger.

 He nursed his coffee staring sightlessly at the formica table while the room muted and faded into the distance. Everything Mary had been was a lie. On the tail of feeling nothing came pity for her. Sherlock had been a subtle conveyer of the worst news. The detective had a choice of bolt-holes and he had chosen Leinster Gardens to show John that Mary was the same as the empty space behind that façade. John understood now and in that peace the wounds that had festered healed.

 And Sherlock, the genius, who had laid with his head on his lap last night with bitter tears in his eyes, had allowed him to see behind his armour. Sherlock wasn’t just protecting himself, he was protecting people. Friends. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, all of his name. Giving me all of himself, Sherlock a girl’s name he was saying he would have been my girlfriend. Things you didn’t say, say them before the chance passes by. Maybe they had both learned, Sherlock and himself, to be brave and say those difficult things somehow.

 His coffee had gone cold and there was a warm, human being he had left to work on a video clip. The lift engineers were, apparently, having no success as they were following John down the stairs. The third door must be the one on the left, the other third door tracking right was a fire exit.

 Then one of the men pushed him sideways to the wall.

The second man closed in.

 John felt a stab of a needle in his neck.

 Panic rose in his mind.

 A memory of being abducted by Moriarty.

 “Sher…” He felt himself yell, but he heard no noise. His ears were not hearing or his larynx failed, paralysed.

Sinking. Struggling. Paralysed.

 

**

**2-30 pm**

Greg returned to his office to find an impatient consulting detective jumping out of his skin.

 “Where’s John?”

 The lanky sod was on form, bellowing as if he owned the damned place. “What are you on about?”

 “Which bit of ‘where’s John’ did you not understand?”

 “Just hold on here, ’Lock. I left him in the canteen. Half an hour ago.”

 “I’ve been there, he isn’t there. He wouldn’t just walk out on his own.”

 “Where you going?” Greg raised his voice as Sherlock darted out of the door, his coat flaring out behind him. The official ran after the long-legged sod pelting down the beige corridor.

 Emily Murcher almost collided with Sherlock and her boss as she came out of a door. “Sir?” She gave into the impulse to chase, escape from the filing cabinets and follow Lestrade.

 “’S alright Murcher, uh, come on, then.” Greg changed his mind about sending her back to the filing cabinets. She had promise and she might as well learn how to deal with Sherlock now rather than after Sally had any influence over her.

 “Errngh” Sherlock snarled, casting around the canteen, his hair flying. “He wouldn’t just up and leave.”

 “Unlike some. Maybe he got a lead.” Greg collected a stare of disbelief from Sherlock. “Maybe he went home!”

 “He’s not answering his phone.” Sherlock growled and pulled his mobile out. “Look.”

 Greg saw an image of a garage wall covered in a bright mural of graffiti. “What’m I looking at. Morris Dancers?”

 “Dancing men with flags.” Murcher said.

 “Dancing men. It’s a code.”  Sherlock confirmed, scrutinising the female officer.

 “From?” Greg frowned.

 “A contact.” Sherlock said. “The lift was jammed, not broken. Those were not engineers, they were saboteurs. That’s his M.O. distraction, this one’s a magician, not a madman.”

 The blank faces made Sherlock shake his head.

“Sleight of hand, you look one way and he does something with the other hand.”

He strode for the stairs and held Lestrade and Murcher back from following him with an imperious hand. After examining the floor with his lens he stood straight again.

“Dust, this is efflorescence from brick soaked by water it dries out and forms this crystalline residue. I need a car. Now.”

 Greg knew when Sherlock was hot on a trail to follow it. “Murcher, you can drive. We’ll take my car.”

 

**

**3:11pm**

 

“Drop me here. Don’t get out of the car, and try not to look like Scotland Yard.” Sherlock instructed.

 Here was Vauxhall Arches. Sherlock made his way down the musty brick-lined entrance to one of the cave-like offshoots below the railway bridge where Billy Wiggins was waiting with a shorter man with black hair and blue eyes sitting on an upturned crate drawing deep drags of a cigarette.

 Bill Wiggins came forward. “He won’t give a name. Says it’s dead important about John and Mrs Watson.”

 “I don’t need a name.” Sherlock offered the shorter man his hand to shake. “What I do need is a location.”

 Pye shook the consulting detective’s hand with a strong grip.

“You’ll need more than that, squire. You’ll need my help. I want my life back and my pal’s. Nothing you would be uncomfortable over. He was set up. In exchange for your friend and his wife. And I ain’t a threat or a snitch.”

 “How?”

 “I took you for being a man who looks after his friends.” Pye dropped the cigarette butt and squashed it under his sole. “In about an hour a bloke, your height, blond, in a brown suede jacket, carrying a package, will get off a private launch at Millennium pier. Take him, get his phone and call Porky. That’s me. I’ll tell you where to come when you’ve done that. But no bloody sirens and lights. Use the password ‘Showboat’ I’ll know it’s you. I’ll let you in, the rest is up to you. Like I said, I want out of it and my pal cleared of what he hasn’t done.”

 “Who’s suede-jacket man? I can see it’s your personal dislike of him but there’s more. He’s your boss. I remove him and then you take over?”

 “My arse! I’m retiring abroad somewhere. Not my bag, guns and Semtex vests and…worse shite than that. Moran’s had it coming a long time. What’s on his phone’ll give your friend the Inspector a collar. There’ll be two men there, more if I don’t get back there now. Is it a deal?”

 “His phone password is ‘Showboat?” Sherlock asked.

 “I don’t know his password, that’s one for you and me, squire.”

 “You think I can just guess passwords.”

 “You read my coded message alright.” The little Irishman pulled an incredulous face.

 “I solved that puzzle using logic.”

 “Uh. All I know is it’s five digits. He’s ex-army, so don’t try grabbing him on yer tod, he won’t take it easy, he’s a donnybrook man and as dirty as they come.”

 “What’s Moran’s first name?”

 “Sebastian. Get him out of the way and I’ll give you a clear run. Does that sound fair?”

 He didn’t trust the informant but Sherlock could not very well say no to the proposition.  He nodded.

“Just one thing. I want to know where the baby is and if the three of them are alive.”

 “The babbie I don’t know about. The woman’s there and by now your friend will be. You want to look sharp. Call me from his phone as soon as you have him ‘cause I can’t give you a guarantee after that. The launch will moor up at The Queens Walk steps nearest to the main road. It’s his private pier.”

 Sherlock turned on his heel and, going out the way he’d come, he flung himself into Greg’s car.

 “How about I just arrest him and have done with it.” Greg chafed at the bit.

 “You said yourself the Yard is overstretched. We don’t have time. The video clip had very little background noise and Moran is arriving by boat. The location is on the river. There is insufficient manpower to go knocking on doors asking if they just happen to be abductors and baby-snatchers.”

 “Sherlock, there’s just three of us and Murcher here’s only been transferred from Manchester three days ago.”

 “I can enlist my brother’s help.”

 Greg needed only a moment. “Do it, then. In at the deep end, Murcher.” He read the young officer’s face turned over her shoulder. “Yeah, he’s always like this.”

 Murcher looked at DI Lestrade and took the lack of objection as permission to smile. “This beats being in the office, sir.”

 “Keep on with the ‘sir’. I’m liking it.”

 “Yes, sir.” Murcher beamed.

 Sherlock turned to Greg with his brain running through the logistics of nabbing Moran on the Millennium Pier. “I'll have to go back to Wiggins for a disguise. If I pose as a drunk begging for change I can keep a close eye on Moran. I'll pickpocket him but let him see I have his phone and I'll run. He'll chase me and I'll lead him to where my brother’s people are waiting with a van? If he runs though arrest him for suspicious behaviour. Either way we’ll have hold of him. I think that sounds like a plan that you can do completely legally?”

 “Can Mycroft arrange Kevlar vests and small arms?”

 Sherlock nodded and waited for Mycroft to pick up the call. “All part of the service.” He said when he had finished talking to his brother. “A white van marked ‘Allbuild’ will be waiting on The Queen’s Walk.”

 “The boat, if he’s coming from the location, he knows where it is.” Murcher suggested.

 “You keep the boat there, Murcher, but be careful, they may be armed,” Greg ordered. “Oi, where you off to?” He called out as Sherlock got out and headed for the Arches again. “Just do as he says, he knows what he’s doing. Usually.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Saturday 3rd January  3:51pm**

 

Sherlock returned several minutes later, carrying a plastic bag, and wearing a borrowed knitted beanie hat crammed down over his ears, a scruffy jacket, and jogging pants. He lurched unsteadily to the car “Hey. D’ya wanna arrest me?”

 Garnering no attention, Sherlock plucked at the windscreen wipers. Murcher squirmed but stayed put then Lestrade recognised him and laughed.

 “Hmm, that works.” Sherlock said in his own voice as he ducked into the back seat again.

 Murcher drove to the pier and let the two men out separately then parked as they made their way towards the white van standing near screens for sectioning off roadworks.

 The van was occupied by a burly man reading a newspaper and a thin, younger man busily playing a videogame until Greg knocked at the window. Mycroft’s men got out, opened up the side door and distributed the Kevlar vests and standard issue Glock handguns to the officials and took no notice of Sherlock, who apparently wandered by, except to quickly pass him one of the photographs of the target and a can of lager.

 In character Sherlock meandered away in the afternoon sunshine, slouching disreputably and pausing only to pick up a discarded cigarette packet. The urge to smoke gnawed at his brain. He stood, swaying slightly, until Greg began to pass by.

 “That’s the brother of the not so honourable Lord Moran. The number one rat. It’s nearly four.” Sherlock said while acting as if he was bothering the man for loose change. Greg pushed past Sherlock and stationed himself to the London Eye side of the pier while Mercher tucked herself away around the corner nearby. 

 Sherlock forced himself into the loose-limbed bleariness of a drunk. It was no time to start feeling the gamut of emotions that went with this; it wouldn't help John or Mary and her baby. He was peeved that he didn’t know where the child had been taken to.

 He could imagine John’s horror and his anger at being rendered helpless. Greg, no doubt, felt humiliated that John had been snatched from Scotland Yard, from right under his nose.

 Distractions. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions distract him. He had counted two fake workmen marking out an area with paint cans, two more of Mycroft’s men in the van and a further pair were dressed as tourists sitting outside the café drinking tea. The stage set, his stomach churned as he pulled the ring on the tin of lager and waited for the show to begin.

 A small pleasure craft chugged into view downstream and cut its engine to travel on the current towards the landing steps that disappeared under the brown froth of the Thames. Moran, easily recognisable now, was standing on the midline of the launch holding a brown padded envelope. Sherlock waited before he began walking slowly and unsteadily towards the man trotting up the stone stairs. He ran, crouched over, to harass three pigeons picking at bread crusts and straightening up lurched, colliding with Moran, artfully spilling beer on his jacket.

 "Hey, man, I jidn't shee you." Sherlock slurred attempting to wipe Moran's jacket while feeling for a giveaway bulge of a gun and a phone. "Have you got a quid?"

 "Piss off, you cunt." Moran pushed at the drunk.

 Greg drew himself up straight, hopefully looking just like any other member of the public, and began to walk toward the men as Sherlock gave Moran a lop-sided leering smile and backed away with his hands in the air.

 "50p, go oon. Jusht 50p. For summat to eat."

 "Fuck off."

 Sherlock's attention split between Moran and Lestrade who was studiously sauntering towards the quayside. Sherlock shadowed Moran and lurched in front of him. "No offence meant, ya know, man?"

 Moran looked down ignoring the drunk checking he hadn’t been pick-pocketed. Sherlock's moment came. He wrenched Moran’s phone from the man’s hand and tore off for the corner where the van was parked and its occupants were leant against the wall smoking.

 "Hoi, Fuck!" Moran lunged for Sherlock who was just out of range. The detective had the advantage of surprise and speed and widened the gap.

 Sherlock, with Moran in hot pursuit, sped away to where the trap was set and Mycroft's men were now straddled one in front and the burly man behind the concrete rendered wall.

 Mycroft's men didn't move a muscle until Sherlock had swerved past and came to a halt as Moran raced around the corner. The burly man grabbed Moran in a vice-like grip that was closer to a wrestling hold than anything and the driver’s assistant pounced. Moran swiftly found the driver had injected his shoulder and within seconds he was no longer struggling grimly and grunting but was sinking to the ground. The burly arms bundled the limp criminal into the van where he collapsed onto the floor. Sherlock grinned broadly after he had opened up the phone. "Goldmine." There were a dozen or so names on the contacts list.

 "Coupla hours worth, sir." The driver spoke to Sherlock warning him how long Moran would be out of commission for and the time in which he had to gain admissible evidence against Moran.

 "Good. The phone password is ‘tiger’" Sherlock assented speed-dialling Porky. Two hours would have to be enough. Fear coiled in his stomach like a serpent and raised its head as Porky kept his side of the bargain. His hand passed the phone to the burly driver as he calculated distances and time.

 “Didn’t the clown have a better password on than that!” Greg waited listening in as best he could as the white van was driven away. “Sherlock?”

 “No time.” Sherlock sprinted away for the launch where Murcher was waiting. “Clock Mill, Bow. They’re in a cellar. It'll be four metres underwater in an hour.”

 “Bow!” Greg echoed running after Sherlock. “That’s more than an hour by car.”

 “We're going by boat. Clock Mill.” Sherlock ordered the boatmen. “Now.”

 “Wha… we can’t go against the tide.” The Captain protested as all eyes turned to him, Greg flashed his identity card at the Captain who batted it away. “You don’t know what I’m saying, do you. Her engine won’t do it for starters, a tanker can be upon you before you can get out of the way if you aren’t bloody careful. That's if she don't blow up.”

 “Then, you’ll have to claim compensation for damage sustained during the course of being an obliging citizen by turning this boat over to Scotland Yard. There are three lives at risk.” Sherlock argued, furiously.

 The radio crackled to life in the cabin with the mate talking rapidly to the traffic control. “Bob, we’ve been advised to, er, co-operate with Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

 “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” the Captain shuddered. “Well, don’t stand there in the way,” he dodged his head into the cabin to his mate. “Cobby, fire her up. You lot had better get lifesaving jackets on.” He pointed to a locker under the seat. “And don’t blame me if we need them.”

 Sherlock saved the boat owner the trouble of casting off as Greg climbed aboard. The consulting detective sprang onto the deck while the mooring rope was hauled in.

 The craft wallowed, bumping against the tires buffering the launch from the quayside until the Captain took the wheel. As he revved up the engines, water spluttered from the jets and they veered at an angle, slipping sideways, turning against the incoming tide.

 As Sherlock leaned against the hull watching the foam and the splash of waves dashing violently against the launch cut through the brown water. They were out of direct sight of Mycroft but not out of reporting range from the Harbour Police and Port Authority as a launch joined to escort them.

 The Captain swung the craft sharply. “Fucking hell.” They were passed at speed by a tug hauling a heavy, wide load appearing rapidly from under the bridge, washing their escort ahead of them and themselves towards the abutment of the bridge. “Not my bloody fault!”

 Cobby appeared a shade paler than when the journey had begun. “I thought I’d have to drop anchor for a minute.”

 “Inspector do we get free stress counselling after this?” The Captain asked.

 “You may well ask.” Greg replied casting an eye on Murcher. “Stick with me and you’ll see all the sights.”

 Murcher grinned, clinging onto the white metal railing. “They said I’d find it different to Manchester. They weren’t wrong!”

 “Welcome to London.” Sherlock put in, causing Murcher’s shoulders to jiggle. A second Harbour Police launch cleared the way for the pilot launch steering them under the bridges and around tour boats, pleasure cruisers, oil tankers and hulks with red keels and black sides towering above them. Dangerous waters.

 After Wapping Stairs the tiny launch was fighting the tide, being pushed out to the bank, being forcibly steered away from the shallows that threatened to ground them on shingle and mudflats. Forcing the boat back into the deeper, turbulent water the craft shuddered with screaming engines. Smoke that had begun rising like a grey mist turned blue and black in a thick swirl billowing from the strained powerhouse.

 “Worst’s over unless the engines blow up.” The Captain said wiping his sweaty forehead and turned into the narrow channel into Limehouse Basin. The patrol boats peeled off chattering on the radio as the launch headed alone up Limehouse Cut.

 The craft picked up speed riding along the tidal flow into a stiff breeze carrying the acrid smoke and the stink of overheated oil over the deck. Greg left the handrail coughing and choking, shielding his face in the crook of his arm as Murcher suddenly crouched, wretching, with streaks of oil down one side of her face. Gamely she waved her boss away.

Sherlock, his hair wild, gave her his grave approval at her pluck, tracking their progress on the earth satellite map on his phone. The stinking, choking blue smoke thickened and came black like a funeral wreath blowing over the deck.

 “I’ve been told to get up close and moor up to a tree.” The Captain announced, at length, with some disgust obvious in his movements and his tone as he cut the power back. “Be ready to disembark.”

 Greg rolled his way up the craft’s spine to Sherlock. “How much time have we got?”

 “Eleven minutes at a run. Then, I don’t know.” He said as the craft shuddered in the shallow water close to the bank. Cobby threw the mooring rope and jumped for a grassy edge then hauled the launch in tying the end off to a white-barked birch tree.

 The three passengers jumped for the bank and scrambled away at a run up a concrete yard, past a warehouse and turned the corner to approach the mill from its one land facing side.

 Murcher checked the Glock 26, standing behind her boss and nodded as firmly as she could manage considering that her only previous experience with a gun was in the safe confines of the training range. Sherlock, taking the front while Greg and Murcher hung back out of sight, jammed the beanie hat back on to his damp curls and rang Porky.

 “Showboat.”

Porky hesitated. “Yes, sir. Gimp and Badger are on front duty. I sent Tot out for grub.” He couldn't keep his voice from shaking but it firmed as he stomped across a bare wooden floor yelling at his underling. “Gimp, get the door.”

 Sherlock gave Greg a keen look that was part confidence and part grim determination. His heart was fluttering with the fear of what they might have done to John, Mary and the baby and that was enough to warrant his cold, impersonal fury. He snapped the phone off and pocketed it as the door was being opened. Bolts on the door were drawn back, top then bottom.

 The serious face of a tall, swarthy man with bushy eyebrows peered out. The door opened wider, Sherlock blocking the doorway for a moment to take stock, he took a second too long, the swarthy man recognised him. Sherlock head butted him. The man groaned holding his hand to his head and as his knees buckled he sank to the floor.

 Sherlock shook his head to clear his vision after the violent impact.

 Greg quickly followed Sherlock inside, saw another man had emerged from the office at the top of the stairs.

 "POLICE! DO NOT MOVE!" Greg yelled, bringing up his gun.

 The man ignored the warning, reached behind his back, pulling a gun from his waistband. Greg did not think twice or hesitate. He fired.

 The thug hobbled, howling and clutching his thigh, tumbling half way down the stairs.

 On a knife edge of nerves Sherlock propped at the sound of the gunshot looking for Porky who was nowhere to be seen.

 "Find John," Greg ordered, walking toward the big thug, now groaning and swearing with pain.

 "Murcher, cuff that one and make sure you disarm him." Keeping his gun on the thug he had shot, Greg advanced carefully, kicking away the gun the man had dropped.

Sherlock darted for the door he deduced led downstairs. His heart battered on his chest wall fearing that when John needed him the most he would be too late and if he lost John now his heart would disintegrate into a million shards of glass.


	16. Chapter 16

Saturday 3rd January.

 

John woke with a groan, bewildered at why he was laid on a cold, damp floor. Reality kicked in abruptly as he raised his head. He had no idea what day it was. It was as black as night. Pitch black and as hard under his body as lying on a mountainside in Afghanistan. He scrubbed at his eyes, realising that neither his feet or hands were tied. It was still as black. Looking up there were no stars above, no sky. “Bloody hell.”

“John?”

Mary’s voice, small but sharp.

“Mary! Where are you?”

“In the far left corner.”

“Are you alright?”

Silence. John patted his pockets, his phone was gone and there was no reassuring lump of gunmetal in his waistband. The last thing he remembered was thinking about Sherlock standing on the tarmac telling him how he would have wanted a relationship, had been thinking about it too.

“What do you think!” Mary’s voice was as cold and resentful as it had been in Baker Street. 

“Where’s the baby?” John was unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“She has a name, John.”

The name Mary had chosen for her baby, not theirs. He got on his hands and knees and crawled on the wet floor toward Mary’s voice. 

“Charlotte. Is she alright, do you know? Sh..it!” John banged his head on something metal and felt his fingers reach a rough, curved edge where the floor vanished. 

Water flowed below the slit in the concrete, making a soft swishing sound, but other than that there was a tense silence.

Mary cleared her throat. “We are in a mill. You hit your head on the mill wheel. There is a maintenance door which is locked. It opens inwards, so don’t bother trying to shoulder it open. If there’s anything you want to say, John. Now is as good a time as any. But before you do…I want to say…I wish things had been different.”

“Why now, why say it now. Things could have been different.”

Mary laughed bitterly. “No they couldn’t.”

The silence was disrupted as a distant train rumbled by. “This is a tidal mill, John.”

John comprehended the metal and the long slit that the wheel disappeared into with water lapping not far below. “When the tide comes in. That’s it?” The chamber would fill with water. “How many stairs are there down to here?”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen.” Four fewer stairs than at 221B. The chamber would be more than twice their height to the ceiling. The water would not rise right up to the door. Maybe. To below the top step. How much air they would have would depend on the height of the ceiling and the height of the tide line and how long it took Sherlock to figure out where they were.

“He won’t come charging to the rescue. Nobody will. The world doesn’t work like that.”

Mary sounded disillusioned.

“How does it work, in your world, Mary?”

John could imagine her face as she made a disbelieving sound of annoyance.

“I was sent to keep an eye on you. Sherlock was solving crimes, damaging Moriarty’s reputation as invincible, the big daddy of crime, but then Moriarty got his kicks watching you running around solving his puzzles. They should have run off and become Mr and Mrs Napoleon of crime. That was what Moriarty wanted. The one thing he couldn’t have. I saved you from that, John, from burning out over what Sherlock could never give you, what you couldn’t have either.”

She thought she had been doing him a favour? Maybe she had been right when they had met. Except they hadn’t met like normal people. It didn’t matter now. But, and it was a big, important thing, the flame had never been extinguished and Sherlock would be out there looking for him even if Mary didn’t think he would be.

“You worked for Moriarty?”

A faint sigh came from the corner as water began to gurgle louder and seeped across the floor.

“I worked for the C.I.A. until Moriarty killed my parents and my fiancé. Then I wanted to tear his whole world apart like he did mine. They washed their hands of me, you know what that’s like, with the army dispensing with you on a whim.” Mary rambled.

It was hardly a whim but John was hearing the truth so he let her continue while the rising water swirled around him. “Yes.”

Mary moved in the inky blackness, sloshing in the water. “When he shot himself it seemed a good opportunity to let everything stop there. Disappear. But the bastard had insurance against that.” 

“Magnussen.” John guessed.

“And a failsafe. He left his most trusted people with keys to his empire, pieces of a puzzle. Only by collecting enough pieces could Moriarty’s business be carried on. Winner takes all. Not much left of it thanks to the Holmes brothers.” Mary sounded tired.

“So why’re we here? Up to our arses in the Thames." It was pointless looking up to see if he could see how high the ceiling was as he rose to his feet. The echo wasn’t reassuring. 

“I know too much but not enough of the code. You, because he can’t get enough of the code. He blames Sherlock for that. He really does care about you. Sorry.”

Yeah, he wished she hadn’t reminded him about Sherlock now the water was under his armpits and he couldn’t keep his footing as the water level rose. “It’s fine. I don’t think he feels things like that.”

“No?” Mary sounded genuinely surprised. “His Best Man speech didn’t give you a hint? John, you really did try not to see it.”

“He got all that Best Man speech stuff from a book.”

“It must be difficult being a bit slow.” Mary's voice grew weaker.

Yeah. Thanks. And if he doesn’t hurry up we’re gonna be in very deep water. Mary was splashing to stay afloat and the echoes increased his sense of urgency. His chest was tight with the cold weight of the water pressing his breath from his lungs. The splashing guided him to Mary. 

“He’ll be looking for us.”

Mary spluttered out water. “Yes.”

To his ears it sounded like Mary would rather die than be found alive. She might get her wish. Mary shouldn’t have been out of the hospital, let alone tear-arsing around getting into deep water. The thought of how deep this water could get was too much to force away. They could drown, suffocate or succumb to hypothermia then drown. The knot in his stomach twisted. “It was my fault it didn’t work, Mrs Watson.”

Mary spluttered again, close enough for him to find her by touch and pull them together. John renewed his attempt to keep them both afloat as they brushed the wall, forced to the corner by the turbulent water. “Stay awake, Mary. What was his name. Your fiancé?”

“Alesandrious?” Mary responded to a short, muffled sound outside their watery prison and fluttered her hand.

John’s heart went onto treble time as he heard a gunshot upstairs.


	17. Chapter 17

Sentiment was a strong motivator, Sherlock almost ran headlong into Porky in his hurry.

“Can’t get it unlocked.” Porky, pale and frantic rammed the keyring at the consulting detective. “There’s water under the fucking door.”

Sherlock snatched the key and raced down the worn, stone steps to another metal door. Bolting through it he saw that there was a further door with brown soupy water seeping up from the stone sill into the short, green-slimed brick-built corridor, down another flight of steps.

“JOHN!”

“SHERLOCK!”

“John!”

Greg was hot on their heels and stared at the man with Sherlock.

He’s with us.” Sherlock said. Porky nodded.

Frowning, Sherlock slithered down the narrow stairs. He pushed his emotions onto the back burner and fiddled the largest key past a metal keyhole cover allowing the trickle of water to become a gushing spout.

“Hold on.” He grunted turning the key in the lock, sending water spraying in jets.

“Yeah.” John said through chattering teeth. Mary had almost stopped paddling and was clutching at his waist. “He’s here. He’s here.”

“Mm” Mary mumbled.

The door had the weight of water behind it and it was taking Greg, Sherlock and Porky to shove together to open it a crack. Water cascaded through the narrow gap drenching the panting trio. Sherlock shook his head, spray flying from his hair, and pushed again with every ounce of his strength. The corridor was fast filling up with ice-cold water, breaking past Sherlock’s knees, the level quickly rising up his thighs. 

Murcher came down the stairs pointing her gun ahead of her and drew in a shocked breath as she saw the three men shouldering the door open, floundering with water up to their thighs. She tore off up the stairs falling to her hands and knees, stumbling onward. She returned moments later with a crate jemmy and waded to the men waist deep in the Thames, losing her footing and swimming the rest of the way. Sherlock grabbed the bar and wedged it in the gap. Porky and Greg grunted with relief at the moment’s respite.

“Three ambulances, Murcher. Four.” Greg ground out.

“They’re here. Sir, there’s another Mr Holmes as well.”

Sherlock groaned. “What’s he doing here!”

“Giving orders.” Murcher answered.

“JOHN?”

“Hurry, it’s Mary.”

Sherlock saw that if he dislodged the bar wedging the door open it would shut like a steel trap behind him. If it held the water level in the chamber should drop, if only for a few seconds. Not hesitating he shook off the wet jacket and took a deep breath. He forced his way through the cascade into the gap and pushed off the doorframe with his feet, swimming with strong, urgent strokes to the barely discernible, shadowy figures.

“John!”

“Hypothermia.”

Sherlock detached Mary from John, holding her up, a dead weight dragging him down.

“Got her.” Sherlock’s feet touched the floor as the turbulent water receded momentarily, sucking them together in an eddy. The water pressure had equalised allowing the door to be opened wider, wide enough to pass Mary through now. The back of his hand, sensitive to moving air, told him that Mary was breathing. He pulled her to the door. Hands reaching through took her to safety. He turned immediately and swam back to John, gasping noisily for air and coughing out water.

John grabbed Sherlock’s wiry arm. Sherlock pushed his arm around John’s waist and John’s hand pushed the straggly mess of wet hair from Sherlock’s face. The drips ran over Sherlock’s trembling lips.

“People can really talk now.” Sherlock said, aware that the water was rising faster, pouring through the door, filling the corridor.

John looked straight back. “Oh, I’d let ‘em.” 

Greg, shoulder deep in the flood, swam to the now fully submerged door to the chamber. “Sherlock!”

“Here.”

Sherlock guided John to the stone lintel over the door and together they took a deep breath and dived, pushing their way down in the mirk towards the light and air. They surfaced, panting heavily. Breathing was not boring it was wonderful. John leaned on Sherlock, his arm around Sherlock’s waist, and sank on weak knees onto the stonework under his feet. The weight of his saturated clothes drained the remaining strength from his body. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the death chamber then propelled John, half carrying him up the slimy stairs into the arms of an anxious paramedic.


	18. Chapter 18

The hospital was generous with antibiotics against the consequences of swallowing more of the Thames than was good for an individual. Mary slept in a private ward and gave up the will to live, not regaining consciousness. Her funeral was conducted ten days later as a quiet, midweek affair for one who had died tragically in the service of her country. The official presence led with a speech paying tribute to a woman of high morals and great fortitude who had devoted her life to saving others. Lord Moran’s childless sister, Sybil, and her husband formally adopted Charlotte. Sybil cried her way through her short tribute giving thanks for the welcome addition to their family.

John had grieved in advance with anger and sadness and now all he felt was he had wasted too much time brooding over the loss of an illusion.

Clearing Porky Pye’s lifelong friend Davey Shinwell of a crime he didn’t commit took sixteen days of solid work. The breakthrough was tracking down a sober witness to prove that on the night of the art theft, which had been pinned on Shinwell, the man was off his head with three women and a man in the basement of a Soho night-club playing strip poker. John had read the statement to Shinwell. There had to be a moral in the tale, John thought, that having no recollection of being somewhere might work to Shinwell’s disadvantage when he had a record for art theft. The slow dawning of memory had crept over Shinwell’s face. Sherlock gave the man a look concomitant with his disbelief at the stupidity of People. John smiled and turned away to pocket his notebook. Case closed. Life had gone back to going on a case, behaving like platonic friends and Sherlock had shown no sign of wanting to change their status quo.

***

“It was a farce.” John said over their breakfast.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied knowing what John was referring to. John was evidently ready to work, looking for his next fix and a conversation because he was reading the newspaper intently without turning the pages. “Let’s play. Celebrity.”

John looked up with questioning eyebrows.

“Brendan Greene.”

John smiled down into the newspaper.

“Ooh, I nearly forgot. A letter came for you, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson plucked the envelope from her pinafore pocket. “That’s not a British stamp is it?”

Sherlock missed his mouth with his toast and marmalade. John was arrested from thought as she peeked at the headlines on Sherlock’s newspaper folded on the table.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” She asked.

“I know who it’s from, why would I want to open it?” Sherlock replied, teasing.

Mrs Hudson lifted her nose. “To read it, I’d imagine.”

“I already know what is says.” He took the grubby envelope, tore the flap open and passed the sheet of notepaper to her.

Mrs Hudson wiped her hands on her pinny. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She frowned, handing it back.

“It’s code. Each dancing man is a letter of the alphabet; a flag denotes the end of a word. It’s from Porky, he’s ruining a guest house in Spain.” Sherlock’s features remained deadpan. John snuffled a laugh.

“A nice man like that, I’m not surprised he’s got all the women after him.” Mrs Hudson veered off taking plates to the kitchen.

“Sorry?” John called out as Sherlock’s eyes rolled. “What’s that?”

“Brendan Greene." Mrs Hudson answered. "He was on the telly last week. On that chat show with the one with the beard. He’s not been murdered has he?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” John put his paper down.

Sherlock smirked. “I hope not. I have an invitation to a party he’s giving.”

 

-o0o-

Harry lost her head for a minute or two when Sherlock and John found her at home after a fortnight of filming without a break. Her house needed tidying, they had roused her from her sleep and she was padding about wrapped in her pink dressing gown over comic book figure pyjamas. It was none of those things that bothered her.

“Not a chance. I’ve saved for that car and it’s on finance, so you aren’t blowing it up for me. I’m not lending it to you.” Harry told Sherlock.

“The motor launch didn’t explode.” Sherlock clarified.

Harry looked skyward for strength. She was grateful, to the end of time, for Sherlock saving her brother’s life although aware it was John’s association with the man that made John needed rescuing to begin with. It was John’s choice, he was a big boy, it made him happy, so she had no quibble with it. “Not for the want of trying, by the sound of it.”

“Which is why I’m not pushing up daisies.” John said.

_You’re ganging up on me! You little buggers!_

Sherlock swayed, his nose in the air, as if offended. “I just thought you might like a personalised number plate for your car.”

The detective’s reply seemed nonsensical, damn but Sherlock being all mysterious knew how to make a girl want to ask questions. It was no surprise that John was fascinated by Sherlock. She folded her arms across her chest. “Why would you think I’d want that?”

“Greene has invited me, us, John and myself, to a party. We will be investigating Mr Greene and obtaining evidence of grievous harassment of women and ruining their showbiz careers, John needs time away to recharge his batteries first.”

John shot his friend a surprised glance.

 _That was news to you, John, I must say I never had your Sherlock figured out for a man who would enjoy a holiday either. In fact, I’d have said it was the last thing he’d do._ People could change, they did, she hadn’t touched alcohol for so long that she rarely missed it. It was an addiction that slept like a dragon, not to be woken up again or it would consume her alive and she couldn’t go back there again. John had his addiction to his flat-mate and he hadn’t changed from Mr Action Man with a medical kit. It was his nature, like hers, to enjoy being in the thick of supporting people to be the best they could be, but for her it was all backstage.

“Where? For how long? I’m not agreeing to this, just so you know.” Harry asked with mild suspicion.

Harry was agreeing, Greene was a complete tosser, but it was obvious that Sherlock Holmes respected John for his strength and she wanted his respect too. It might even have been an extra factor in staying sober.

“The Lake District. It can’t be just any old car. I’ll lay a hire car on for you for as long as you need. And the number plate XX07 ART.” Sherlock offered.

“I’m only agreeing because John needs a holiday.” _And you two need to get your shit together because you say his name as if you enjoy the sound, as if it’s the most beautiful sound on earth and you say it how a lover might say it, softly, often and for the pleasure of saying his name._ “And that means you eating in restaurants not John cooking every night.”

“Consider it done. We’ll collect it next weekend.” Sherlock preened.

“Done, and take candles with you, and food, if there’s real snow the electric could go off. It’s not London, you know.”

London it was not, there were places up there with no television signal and no mobile reception. Maybe Sherlock had overlooked that, or maybe he hadn’t. That made her smile. Maybe Sherlock was planning to take her brother away from everything so that there were no distractions and John might actually have to talk to him.

The following weekend Harry handed over the keys for her pride and joy to John.

“Don’t dink it.” Harry instructed.

While John reversed out of the garage Harry caught Sherlock’s eye and smiled. “He’s waiting for you.”

“I know.” Sherlock said, standing at the open door and stalked off, his coat flying on the air. He looked like a man on a mission.

John drove north after picking up their luggage. He found himself appreciating the Aston possibly because it suited his stature like Harry’s and everything was to hand. If he had one gripe it was the amount of shoulder needed to change gear but the Aston was remarkably sweet as a London runabout and performed like something out of a wet dream on the motorways. The car, it made him smile just to think of the idea, shared qualities with Sherlock too, it was built for drama, it emitted a deep, sexy rumble and, all the time, looked damn good. John secretly felt like James Bond.


	19. Chapter 19

“It’s not what I expected.” John picked up the keys from the safe-box and let himself and Sherlock into a white-washed, narrow-fronted stone cottage on a private road through a tranquil, pretty, but otherwise ordinary, slate-grey Lakeland village.

 The clock on the tower of the church struck three, a woman with long pigtails tied with bright pink and green wool, dressed for hiking, walked an eager spaniel past the drive where the gloriously stunning, red, shiny Aston Martin cooled.

 “Thank god there’s a garage selling petrol.” John added.

 Sherlock nodded in agreement. It wasn’t really a grumble. It was relief that the voracious appetite of the engine could be satisfied regularly. There couldn’t be anything less cool than running out of gas with a motor like that. He wondered if his appetite would be satisfied regularly and it wasn’t food he was thinking about. A flash of nervous energy spiked below his heart and travelled down to his abdomen.

 “The perfect car.” Sherlock remarked, struggling to make his voice sound normal, followed John through the blue-painted door into a hall with geometric blue, cream and maroon encaustic tiles. “Nobody who cares about the cost of petrol buys a gas-guzzler.” Greene was materialistic and Sherlock’s careful enquiries had revealed that Greene’s deceased wife had been a shrewd investor. Greene liked more than a pretty face, wealth gave it a gloss he was attracted to.

 “Built in rest-stops for the long-legged to get out and stretch.” John said as he opened a golden waxed oak door into a cosy sitting room with a gas fire and a squashy chintz sofa with two chairs. The room behind that was the kitchen beyond a narrow set of stairs. A quick detour through a glazed door opposite led them into a conservatory and a boot room equipped with a washing machine and sink.

 “It’s a weird layout.” John murmured stepping forward to look out of the conservatory windows onto a small, slate patio decorated with plants in glossy ruby-coloured pots. The patio maybe little light, or perhaps the owner just had a strange sense of humour, a wall was covered with old framed mirrors and wicker plant pot holders of trailing plants. “Quirky.”

 “Interesting.” The cottage was exactly as Sherlock had expected, private, comfortable and it came with a large bathroom and master bedroom. He hoped to make good use of the amenities. He was aware that a subtle, but thorough, survey of his arse had been made by John. The reflection in the windows of more than one petrol station revealed that John’s fixation on hands had shifted to Sherlock’s sit-upon.

 The thought of his rear, bare and available to John had at first been an idea that filled him with shame that he could no longer control his body, then it had become a pleasure to imagine John liking his body. Then he had experienced alarm in case the hard, masculine lines were too male for John’s liking. Logic, however, insisted that John was far too interested in his anatomy to reject it. At least he hoped so, it felt dangerously close to opening himself up to hurt if John was not so enthusiastic about the reality as the idea.

 He tried to push such thoughts from his mind. The car had certainly fired John’s imagination. John enjoyed the James Bond films and just because it was his way to explore John’s tastes by borrowing the Aston Martin Vantage too that didn’t make it less of a utility to catch Greene’s eye. John had developed a fluidity of movement as if he was quietly confident that he was irresistible.

 The game of chase was back on with John.

 Sherlock’s right hand passed slowly down over his crotch. He saw this was reflected in the mirror on the garden wall back to John. He could see that John had noticed him touch himself, John gaped, looked interested and quickly swallowed. So far so good. John was in the right frame of mind and Sherlock knew he only had to fan that smouldering ember into a flame of desire for something to happen. At last, at long last.

 He turned gracefully to face John. “It’s not too isolated for you here?”

 “No, it’s nice. I like it.” John gazed back steadily.

  _Good, because before we leave here I want you to have owned my body the way you own my heart, John. You achieved the unthinkable, a miracle, you made me love you._

 “It’s nice and private.” John continued, without looking away.

 “Where we won’t be disturbed. By anyone.” _Private and where nobody will see. Not at 221B where the routine is so easy to fall into and not change. No clients barging in, nobody to hear us. Just you and I._

“If you don’t want to be disturbed you’d better turn your phone off.” John answered in a warm, clipped tone.

 Sherlock produced his already switched off phone and took a step forward to press it into John’s hand. His fingers brushed John’s hand lightly as he moved closer to the pleasant warmth of the flame of his desire. 

 “Only one thing disturbs me here.” Sherlock cringed internally at his dreadful attempt to flirt.

 John looked down at Sherlock’s phone and looked up again.

 Sherlock’s brain deserted him at the thought of acting on his promises. It would happen. Being together, knowing John, in the biblical sense, would happen after all the uncertainty and the waiting. Screwing this up at the final hurdle terrified him.

 “The only excuse I have for bringing you here is to convince Greene that I’m unavailable.” Sherlock blurted.

 Suddenly Sherlock wished the ground would just open up and consume him. It was not what he had meant to say. It was true but it wasn’t what he had wanted to say. John addled his wits gazing up at him like this, so close, close enough to kiss.

  _Too soon. What am I thinking! Not too soon_. Why didn’t John just do something! He was waiting for John to…he didn’t know why he was waiting. If this was for a case he would have initiated physical contact if he had to. The moment was passing. He should have taken the opportunity!

 “I’m not sure I’m getting this.” John licked his lips, the tip of his tongue peeking out and flashing suggestively.

  _Oh, heaven above! Yes, you are_. _This is it._ “Then let me enlighten you.” Sherlock lowered his voice for the way John responded to it.

 Sherlock closed the gap, bent his head and hovered his lips over John’s. John tilted his head and breathed in. Sherlock breathed in heavily, feeling an overpowering need to explore. Sense held him back from rushing this crassly. His lips felt the warmth of John’s lips brush over his then John pocketed his phone and the touch became almost a kiss. John’s bottom lip confidently but very slowly being nudged at Sherlock’s bottom lip. The sensation was exquisite, so intoxicating that he was thankful that John’s hand stole around his waist and lower back steadying him on his shaky legs. John’s warm hands held him still as their lips parted. Sherlock’s mind immediately shrieked for more.

 “More.” John demanded softly in a faint whisper under Sherlock’s mouth.

 Sherlock made the smallest noise of stunned acquiescence and slowly sought John’s lips again. The touch was firmer and still tender from John, sending a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. The shiver pooled as warmth in Sherlock’s groin bringing him almost instantly to half-hard.

 “John.”

 “Yeah.” John whispered catching Sherlock’s bottom lip and sucking it gently until Sherlock’s hands found John’s sides. Sherlock felt his face flush hot and let out another small sound of pleasure, breathing shallowly and rapidly. So easy, so natural, so unlike his impoverished imaginings that had brought him to need to feel it all for real. His heart thrummed with pleasure at the sensations as his burgeoning erection made itself felt.

 John paused, seeming to savour the plush softness of Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock melted in the heat of John’s mouth. It had been easy to do the most intuitive thing in the world, to reach forward and surround John, to let himself be engulfed, the gathering up pulling them together as the wonder of the moment pushed their mouths apart.

 “This is what you want? Me?” Sherlock asked breathlessly, feeling that he might ignite and burst into bright flames.

 “Yes, you. You want this?” John made a space between them to gaze into Sherlock’s face.

 “You.” Sherlock murmured, closing the gap he gulped in a breath. “I…won’t…stop…”

 “Then, don’t stop.” John said, so mildly, so calmly, so logically.

 Sherlock plastered John’s hair with small kisses down to his ear. “I…before. I mean…I didn’t… know.”

 “You know now.” John said, smiling, being smothered with kisses across his temple. Their arms moved finding how to keep each other close to bathe in the luxury of intimate proximity.

 John was bulging in his trousers, pressing against Sherlock’s erection pushing achingly against the barrier of clothing.

 Sherlock pressed in for John’s mouth again as John invited his lips. The contact sent another dizzying wave of desire through his body. His mind stuttered to function. Too hot. He needed to undo his jacket with unresponsive fingers and he wanted to push John against a wall, push him naked against a wall and kiss every inch of bare skin. John’s hand disengaged from Sherlock’s waist and undid Sherlock’s buttons. All this lost time, years wasted when he should have been ripping John’s clothes off and tearing off his own.

 “Here, now.” Sherlock asked, taking a breath.

 “There’s a better place.” John mumbled into Sherlock’s mouth.

 “Bedroom.”

 John laughed softly. “I’ll be up there in a moment. Something we need from the car.”

 Sherlock stopped pushing himself frantically against John, found some decorum from somewhere and then felt he had lost it again by making for the stairs with a stiff gait. The bulge in his trousers impeded his impulse to take the stairs two at a time. In the heat of the moment he had forgotten to be self-conscious and had forgotten to worry about fitting bits of anatomy together. Now he wondered if he could ever concentrate on a case while John was so close to him, making his lungs forget how to function and sending his pulse sky high.

 

*******

 John watched Sherlock dart away. He shook his head, grinning and adjusted the painfully trapped lump in his jeans then bounced out to the car for his holdall. When he entered the bedroom Sherlock was sitting on the bed resembling a man who regretted kissing his flat-mate. Not regret, he knew that, but something unreadable. Not wanting to stop though or Sherlock would have fled.

 John’s heart possessed all the qualities of a stone dropped in a lake. “What’s the matter?”

 Sherlock shrugged unhappily, contemplating the carpet.

 “I was afraid of that.” John set the holdall down by the side of the bed and sat down next to Sherlock who looked miserable. “All of that. Then I realised I could be afraid for the rest of my life.”

 “I’m not scared about having sex with you.”

 Sherlock looked as if his brain had re-engaged with a vengeance and John could see Sherlock retreating to safety and never coming back.

 “I know, that was pretty obvious. But I am. Because once wouldn’t be enough. It’d spoil me forever. I’d want you again and again and nobody else. You can put me right if I’m wrong, Sherlock, but I think you feel the same way. So that’s not what’s the matter.”

 “I see now how dangerous it was to teach you how to deduce.”

 “Well, I’ve had a good teacher. But, no, I can’t deduce why you are sitting here looking as miserable as sin. All I can do is guess that it was an unexpected head rush.”

 “My mind is a perfectly balanced machine.” Sherlock said flatly. To John it lacked real conviction.

 “And that headrush threw a spanner in the works? Remember when the H.O.U.N.D drug was in your system. You were fine the next day. Better than fine you solved the case and saved Henry’s life. He remembered that when people were saying you were a fraud. He invited me over to stay with him.”

 “Did you go?”

 “No, I didn’t. I think it was then that I became afraid that I had feelings about you which were bordering on pornographic and I didn’t want you to deduce that in case it changed how we got on. And I was afraid of that until…I’m not sure when.”

 “I believe I can say approximately when.”

 “When did you know?”

 “When did I know that you had. Impulses? In the hospital. You took my pulse when there was a perfectly efficient monitor reading it.” Sherlock admitted.

 “You cock, you knew then?”

 “And you have not been quite as subtle about appreciating my assets of late.”

 “You can talk.” John shook his head, smiling devilishly.

 “Was I so unsubtle as that?”

  _Subtle as a ton of London stock bricks at times._ _I saw how frightened you were that you would find me drowned. I saw how vulnerable you looked, like a child, the hurt at the thought that I was Moriarty in that swimming pool. I caught a glimpse of your heart. You showed me yourself._

“You liked my hand in your hair.”

 Sherlock shivered, looking serious. “You can do that again. Please.”

 John shuffled up to Sherlock until there was no gap between them and slid his hand up Sherlock’s back. He was rewarded by Sherlock being stopped in his tracks, gaping, breathing in and breathing out. His hand slipped around Sherlock’s long neck and pushed his fingers up into the luxurious curls. Sherlock, gulped (adorably) drew in a fast breath and let out an uninhibited gasp.

 Swivelling a little Sherlock’s hand touched John’s knee and stroked up John’s thigh. _Perfect. Just right._ John’s free hand moved to Sherlock’s face turning the sumptuously full cupid’s bow in line for his own lips as he closed his eyes.

 Sherlock leaned in, intuitively copying John’s kiss, enclosing John’s lower lip and pulling at it suggestively. John moaned at the back of his throat and pressed for more contact. In a moment the kiss had shifted from languid to expressive and tipped over into tasting each other’s mouths. John’s hand slid down Sherlock’s neck sending a tremor of delight through the lean torso, Sherlock, reciprocating, squeezed John’s upper thigh high up. Encouraged Sherlock relaxed, leaning backwards. Spurred on, John gently pressed against Sherlock’s chest taking them unhurriedly backwards onto the mattress.

 Sherlock’s hand splayed over the bulge tenting John’s trousers and John twisted, with an exhale, to renew the kiss with intermittent touches over Sherlock’s parted lips teasing and inviting him to take more. John’s other hand slid slowly to Sherlock’s waistband until Sherlock’s strong fingers closed over John’s wrist pushing John’s palm insistently down onto Sherlock’s own erection.

  _God, Sherlock, you really want it, me. You aren’t asexual for me._

 John’s fingers carded through the fine, dark curls while his lips moved over Sherlock’s open mouth eliciting tiny gasps. John felt his face growing hot as Sherlock strained up for the teasing lips dipping honeyed kisses _. So sweet and so bloody hot._

_In such a hurry. Slow down, slow down._ Sherlock’s fingers traced out John’s shape and Sherlock seemingly decided the fabric barrier was in his way, picked at John’s trouser button _. God you can make a man lose his resolve._ John wanted this to last more than five minutes but, with care, pulled down Sherlock’s trouser zip.

 Sherlock _hissed_ with anticipation as John pulled Sherlock’s leather belt free of the buckle and popped the clasp and button. Sherlock helped free himself of his trousers in an uncoordinated wriggle with a little help from John pushing the offending garment down until the trousers dropped to Sherlock’s ankles of their own volition. John toed his brogues off.

 Sherlock renewed his efforts to snog and divest John of his trousers while thrusting his pride and joy to get contact on John’s thigh. John contributed by unzipping his jeans to avoid a delicate part of himself becoming trapped. Their breathing sounded loud to John’s ears and his resolve to slow the pace was dealt a severe blow by looking at Sherlock’s face flushed pink and his lips red and even more inviting. _You look like a bloody angel and…Oh, my god._

 “Shuffle up, I want your boxer’s off you.” John peeked out from under lids heavy with desire, he made the request almost a command. Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

  _You haven’t done this before. We’ll go slow. I’ll take care so you enjoy it._ “Ah, yeah, you are gorgeous,” John approved. His remark drew a slightly pained but warm, happy sound from Sherlock. _You have always enjoyed a compliment from me. You aren’t just a laser-fast brain I admire, though that’s as sexy as hell. You are you and this is a part of you I will love too._

 He eased Sherlock’s underpants down and left them under Sherlock’s balls _. It’s about feeling, not thinking it through like a military exercise with a target in your sights_. “Bloody gorgeous.” John shuffled down to undo Sherlock’s shoe-laces teasing himself with a look up at Sherlock’s erection bobbing up as he stroked Sherlock’s calf. Sherlock groaned but successfully toed off his shoes.

 John removed Sherlock’s trousers, stood and began unbuttoning his shirt without delay as Sherlock pulled fervently at the buttons on his shirt. They were bare-chested in quick time, Sherlock flinging his aside, John dropping his shirt on the floor and shoving his trousers down to step out of them. His eyes fixed on Sherlock’s darkened eyes with a translucent pale green rim around the black of his pupils. That made John throb. _You can’t know how sexy you look._

 The man’s outstretched hand implored John to climb back onto the bed. John’s blood was up and he dropped his briefs in a neat movement before kneeling beside Sherlock and gazing into those wonderful heterochromatic eyes dark with desire. Sherlock’s arm snaked out to hook around John’s waist, instinctively trying to pull John closer.

 John resisted by engaging in eye contact to communicate. Whatever it had been when Sherlock pinned John down with his gaze and John looked back steadily had been laden with a changing plethora of unspoken thoughts. Sherlock’s thoughts chased each other in such quick succession that they were difficult for John to read. Now it was John steadily promising everything that he intended to deliver. _Don’t move, let me do this, feel, trust me._

Sherlock made himself clear enough. He wasn’t moving, he was waiting, allowing, not deducing it all to death and squeezing the warm life out of it with cold, unemotional logic, he was forgetting reason, feeling, being open and trusting John.

 Sherlock’s hand fastened on John’s shoulder. John began stroking Sherlock’s slender wrist, closing his hand around it, gliding his hand over the muscular forearm, sweeping his palm over the firm, round bicep. John reversed the direction of his hand with firmer pressure until his fingers were wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist again _. Slow, keep it slow, make it last_. Sherlock seemingly caught the idea that John was mimicking stroking Sherlock’s cock and he hiccupped in a breath, arching, thrusting up his hips.

 “You are so bloody hot.” John said quietly, folding Sherlock’s arm onto the bedcover, holding his wrist down and propping himself up to slip his other hand through Sherlock’s hair.

 “John.” Sherlock sounded, thrillingly, half-wrecked and closed his eyes, tipping his head back, exposing his throat.

 “Sherlock, you are a gorgeous man.” John answered slipping down to kiss the moles on Sherlock’s neck one by one with slow, deliberate, little kisses. He glanced over Sherlock’s body down the channel between Sherlock’s pectoral muscles heaving up with every deep, slow breath. His eyes roamed, following the trail of short ginger brown hair meandering like a rivulet around Sherlock’s navel down to a springy curls.

 John’s breath hitched at Sherlock’s rosy pink, solid, erection glistening in the light. His mouth greedily sought, and found, an oval nipple, sucking it, lathing the circle with his tongue. Sherlock shuddered, pulling in a breath as if he had forgotten how to breathe. _You like that, that’s good, I like that._

 John’s tongue flicked the little nub up to a pert bud. _So responsive_.

 “Please, John.” Sherlock moaned, his hips bucking up, his cock seeking touch. John nestled in, his hand brushing lightly up and over Sherlock’s manhood. He rolled his palm around the fiercely jutting glans. Sherlock jumped and groaned loudly as John wrapped his leg over Sherlock’s. John pushed his aching, throbbing cock onto the warm flesh of Sherlock’s outer thigh, making small rutting motions.

 “Please.” Sherlock, feverishly clutching the muscle of John’s clavicle, pressed hard into John’s flesh. He was welded to John pulling him to his body. His fingers ran up John’s neck over the carotid artery and searched out John’s hair. John had eschewed cutting his hair short to go with his new persona as Scott Ashton’s personal assistant and there was enough length to feel the strands.

 “I will.” John answered in a low, growly whisper, a promise, breathing cold air over the pert nipple standing to attention.

Sherlock shuddered and groaned appreciatively, a surprised gasp. John warmed the bud again, drawing the soft flesh into his mouth. His hand grasping Sherlock's hair, John put enough tension on the silken locks for Sherlock to feel it. Laving his tongue around the dark circle under Sherlock's nipple and rolling his other hand over Sherlock's volcanic hardness. Three points of contact, alternating where Sherlock felt his presence the most. Sending confusing positive signals, undoing Sherlock in little steps, turning on the nerve endings, lighting Sherlock up.

Irene intruded into John’s thoughts ‘I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice’ She bloody knew how Sherlock was wired. Christ, how long had it take for the penny to drop with him that Sherlock might be wired that way between the sheets. Sherlock was under his touch, pliant, responsive. Receptive and relaxing, letting himself be carried away. So very beautiful. He’d make it worth the wait for Sherlock _. Slowly, gently first, this first time._

 John took hold of Sherlock, velvet softness of skin over the hard muscle greeted John’s patient. loving fingers. He stroked down firmly and pulled a light stroke upwards. Sherlock wriggled delightfully as John lavished attention on the wet, slippery head, clasping his finger and thumb into a circle, pushing down against Sherlock’s upward thrusts. His finger and thumb closed tighter under the ledge of the hot end, expanding again and closing again as it slid up to the wet tip. Gradually the tight circle blossomed into a slack fist. Sherlock rolled himself into the contact. John watched as Sherlock set the pace thrusting into John’s fist. John put his own pleasure aside to enjoy the heady feeling of being the architect of Sherlock’s pleasure, contented to discover what Sherlock liked best.

John burned to know what Sherlock wanted most. This was just gentle exploration, confidence giving. He felt there was so much more possible. There were so many ways he could love Sherlock. So many ways of being loved. So much love to give how Sherlock wanted it. John was filling Sherlock's world with sensations and John was loving his world with Sherlock at the heart of it. 

 The church clock chimed distantly on the edge of John’s hearing as he listened to his lover’s deep, emotionally charged breaths. He was tempted to look at Sherlock’s face but, feeling the tension in Sherlock’s frame, pushing Sherlock inexorably towards coming, kept up his ministrations, slackening his grip on Sherlock's hair to simple touch. Sherlock shivered visibly then tensed strongly, the long, hard muscles of his thighs trembled as he gathered up involuntarily. Sherlock’s hand stuttered and his face looked pained. John took over the rhythm and after only a few strokes Sherlock appeared to be close to coming. John felt very moved by Sherlock's trust and his sheer beauty arching and dipping under John's touch. He urged Sherlock on with gentle but remorseless love until his lover’s breathing stopped, Sherlock was a magnificent sight with his head flung back, his fist screwing the bedspread into a tight ball, reaching, arching, poised to topple over the edge.

 “God, yes, that’s it, let it all go.” 

 Sherlock came to completion with a small strangled cry. His seed barrelled out with force. A second spurt followed then a small third shot. He collapsed, spent, with sweat sheening his forehead, taking in a huge gulp of air. John possessively and protectively lightly covered Sherlock’s body with his own. Then he lowered himself to Sherlock’s side gazed at the grubby angel and laid there propped up on his elbow until Sherlock’s eyes flickered open, his arm over Sherlock's ribs in a tender embrace, his chest to Sherlock's side. John's leg still hooked over Sherlock's, pulling them into heated, damp, skin to skin contact. Sherlock looked utterly wrecked and dazed. To John he looked like the most extraordinary thing on the planet and for a moment so very ordinary that John choked up at the enormous privilege of seeing Sherlock so human and alluringly vulnerable.

Catching breath passed in easy silence.

 “Hi.” John smiled. Sherlock looked bewildered for a moment before his laser eyes focussed sharply again. _Too much to hope that Sherlock would doze in a post-orgasmic state._

 “Hello.” Sherlock replied, automatically, squinting down with a lined forehead at the streak of milky-white fluid close to the red scar on his midline. His hand flapped weakly by his side. “That was. Unexpected.”

 John chuckled. Sherlock had a knack of understatement which amused John. None of this, from a sudden decision, on the detective’s part, to go for a holiday to cannoning them into a sexual relationship, had been less than unexpected. _Oh, god, sex holiday. A honeymoon, Sherlock called it a Sex Holiday. That was a bit left field._ “I wouldn’t like to be too predictable.”

 Sherlock laughed and tried an experiment in moving. He seemed to realise then that he was wet in places and that John had not come as his fingertips explored the sticky mess above his navel and he looked down at John’s crotch, his features unexpectedly filled with confused disappointment. “You didn’t come?”

 “Oh, make up for it next time.” John smiled genially. He was sure that there would be a next time, although not how soon that would be. Not too long to wait, he hoped. With Sherlock one couldn’t be sure. He had never imagined Sherlock actually being avid about sex, let alone making love.

 “Without a doubt.” Sherlock disentangled himself to sit up. His eyes, bright and sharp, roamed over John from head to foot. John felt as if he was being deduced.

 “John, it would be inconvenient for you to be in your condition over dinner. People might talk. They might be jealous.”

 “He’ll go down.” John said, smiling, touching himself to show he wasn’t perturbed.

 “I could never accurately imagine what you would look like.”

 John felt a little giddy, his eyes closed as his member twitched at the idea that Sherlock had tried to imagine anything of that sort. A window into a world of possibilities opened sending John’s thoughts flying in different directions.

 “Keep on like that and the next time will be now and you probably wouldn’t have to touch me.” John said, in a rush.

 “I was sssuggesting it might be.” Sherlock purred.

 John squeaked. The lazy, drawn out susurration bypassed his brain and went straight to his cock. He found the lisp irresistibly sexy. He could imagine what it might have been like for Sherlock to be sent spinning out of his own control. That was how he felt. Sherlock had all of him apart from control over his sex-life and for a moment John’s fear re-surfaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm amazed, delighted that so many people are reading this, my first long fic. More than 1450 hits. You have helped me to write through a very difficult time with your kind and funny comments. 
> 
> Initially this ran to 24 Chapters. I think I'll add new parts after this for an established relationship. Please leave me more of those comments giving me suggestions about what you would like exploring if you have enjoyed what I've written so far.


	20. Seeing stars.

Sherlock knew what his voice could do, it was a tool in his armoury, one he used when necessary and for an effect. He used language, vocabulary, words, accents, tones, pitch, volume, diction and inflection. He felt he had said the wrong thing. One moment John was relaxed and the next Sherlock read tension. He was completely out of his depth not knowing how to give John what he wanted. After a moment of panic he saw a simple solution. He pulled off his underpants, then kneeled up facing John.

“John, I have no prior experience to call upon.” _That didn’t hurt to admit, did it! Go on, idiot!_ “Teach me.”

John’s blue eyes, dark-centred with desire tracked Sherlock’s movements as John turned, rolling to kneel up facing Sherlock. “I’ve no previous experience with a man either. It just happened.” His smile returned, brightened as if a dimmer switch had been steadily turned up. “Not bad for two beginners.”

“I would say very good.” Sherlock moved slowly to position himself to kiss John again. It gave him a rather odd sensation in his core which was sharp but pleasurable. The vague feeling of worry about not being desirable when all his masculine hard lines were exposed threatened to throw him off his intention, he took in a calming breath. Both kneeling, Sherlock spread his legs giving himself less of a height advantage, or as it was now, giving himself a disadvantage of height. His hands went to rest on John’s knees and he spread his own knees wider apart to reduce his height further, opening himself wider, rising up to pull at John’s lower lip as John had done to him. He was cautious, trying not to make something happen, making a conscious effort to be open to John’s decision about moving from this position.

John enjoyed the attention and responded with slow, sensual kisses, his hands on top of Sherlock’s hands rubbing his thumbs on the flesh and over bone, stroking slowly. Sherlock felt himself stir inside and cut his eyes from John’s to find that John was fully hard again. Feeling John’s hands slide over his ribs he followed the pull as John laid back pulling Sherlock with him, steering him to John’s side. Sherlock laid on his side next to John who closed his eyes.

Sherlock was fascinated by John’s length. _Shorter than myself, only by a little, but wider in his girth, I like his honey-coloured skin, the fine blond curls that barely hide his skin from me. I could spend my life loving all of John._ John guided Sherlock’s hand to curl around his erection low to John’s balls, spheres that hung lower and were larger than Sherlock’s own pair. John left his hand there, moving his fist higher up, stroking himself slowly.

“Hook your leg over mine.” John asked in a growly way that sent a shiver rippling through Sherlock’s groin.

Sherlock pulled himself closer. John smiled, holding his head to the side, open to the throat kisses which had driven Sherlock to another level of high. Sherlock obliged willingly, noting that amongst the scant freckles and two tiny moles was a place that elicited a small, musical sound when his lips travelled over it. He homed in on it as John stroked himself and John’s breathing became deeper and smooth.

“Talk to me.” John commanded.

 _Does one compliment John on his assets or was one supposed to say something nice_. He couldn’t say those three little words that were legendary declarations of (his) feelings, he feared they would sound trite and artificial. Sherlock, then, found himself scrabbling for something suitable to say.

“Tell me how you imagined this would be.” John continued, helpfully.

Sherlock’s brain scrambled for a ledge to hold onto. _No, no you can’t tell him. If he doesn’t like it you could kill this moment dead._ Fear was a normal reaction to something that warranted it. He feared ruining this. It hit him, hard, how much he wanted this relationship.

“Did you touch yourself thinking about this?” John asked, moving his hand across to Sherlock’s length, his other hand _thrust_ through Sherlock’s hair.

“Yes.” Sherlock blurted, his eyelids fluttered as electric current streaked through his veins making him jump and squeezed his thigh against John’s. He gasped as John’s fingers closed around his end and squeezed. He thought about one of the fantasies he’d had in the summer and had laid on his bed, sweltering, with the fan blowing cool air over his bare skin, wanting the hand on his end to be John’s hand. The fantasy which involved danger.

“Good. Yeah, tell me about that.” John requested.

“I’ve been captured by a dangerous criminal. I’m stripped naked, I’m on the floor. You find me, John.” Sherlock admitted, a little fearful, his heart flipped.

“Mm, yeah.”

John’s fingers played over Sherlock’s erection. He grasped Sherlock’s hand and moved it upwards until it was wrapped in a fist around John’s end. The heat bloomed on Sherlock’s cheeks. He hardened fully and he felt his own heat against John’s cool skin.

“You come in with your gun with that look of competence all over you, on your face, in how you move, it’s all written on your body. I look up as you look at me, it’s how you look at me, you look over my body, slowly. I see you looking at me and you see I’ve noticed. I don’t move. You smile and you keep on looking.” Sherlock paused, watching John’s chest rise with shorter, faster breaths matching his own.

“Your eyes are dark, navy-blue, filled with arousal, it’s all there for me to deduce that you want me. You lay your gun near my head, I’m on my side and you push me onto my back, and I’m hard because…” _Say it._ “you want to have me.”

“Yeah, I want you.” John’s breathing roughened, his back arched and dropped, the muscles of his thigh trembled in tiny spasms.

Sherlock felt awed seeing John’s face becoming lined in concentration, John breathing hard through pink, parted lips, pushing into his fist. He wondered how it would feel to be had, fucked, and made love to. He imagined it would feel dangerous, not in his own control. He hoped it would feel dangerous sometimes, unpredictable. His breathing quickened with his pulse.

“You can have me, John. I want you to. Want you to have me.” Sherlock promised, his voice dropping low of its own volition. He wanted that very much.

John moaned loudly and his weight went onto his strong shoulders, his spine lifting off the bed.

Sherlock’s fantasy in the shower with his palms against the tiles, had ended, once, in splattering the shower tray floor having barely touched himself. That had felt like relief from a negative state. That been nothing to how he had felt when John had brought him off. That had been for his pleasure not John’s. John had restrained himself for Sherlock’s sake. How he loved John more than before. He didn’t know how he could but that was what he felt.

“You make me hard and wanting, John. Wanting to be touched, for your pleasure.” His voice rang with sincerity.

John groaned loudly and broke out in a sweat. Sherlock felt his balls tight and aching. A fresh stab of need coursed through his body. The shower scenario.

“I’m hard and hot, heavy, aching for you to touch me.” Sherlock described how he felt at that moment, shamelessly.

“I need you. I know you want to have me. You are going to fuck me, your hand is in my hair.” Sherlock confessed his weakness, his need, out loud.

John gasped, went rigid, panting for breath. Sherlock was fascinated, then the world could go to hell in a handcart. He couldn’t think, wholly oblivious to anything but the golden acre of John’s warm skin, the prominent little nipples he wanted to wrap his lips around. John’s fist in his hair holding him in place stopping him from moving, making him feel…Desperate.

“You fuck me how you want me, John, and you come.”

John thrust up his hips. “Oh ffff…ck.”

Sherlock groaned at the sight of John arching and having an orgasm in front of his eyes. The release of tension, the astounding beauty of John like that propelled Sherlock over the edge into coming again. He might have sworn or said John’s name, he wasn’t sure what was issuing from his mouth and didn’t care. Somehow, in moments, Sherlock lips were on John’s chest and John’s fingers were still in Sherlock’s hair, stroking his crown and it was glorious and that was all that mattered. Here. Now. Sherlock wanted it to be Always too. All ways and until he drew his last breath. It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that John had thought he had meant he had wanted to bed John immediately, that Here meant, in the conservatory, that Now meant that moment. John had actively wanted that, was not surprised by it, nor the least bit reticent. Had seen it coming and waited for Sherlock to give himself to John. His John who was pretty damned smart. Sherlock fizzed with anticipation.

“Sherlock.” John, breathed, he looked bleary and wore the smile of a man for whom everything was good.

“Hello, that’s me.” Sherlock said, brightly, as John’s eyelids unstuck.

“That was...” John let out his breath through almost closed lips of warm pink, his long, golden honey eyelashes fluttered alluringly.

“Was it?”

“Yeah, I saw stars.”

John’s praise always made Sherlock feel special, but as a boyfriend it was especially good. “Are we? Obviously, we are still friends. Best friends. Partners, that sounds like a business thing.”

John let out a single low giggle. “I hadn’t thought past ‘oh, yeah, please keep on doing that’, actually.”

 _My god! I will, you wouldn’t be able to stop me now._ Sherlock wanted to say, it would sound too...Gushing. “It doesn’t matter; we have time to come up with a label.”

Sherlock sat up, grinning at his discovery. He observed a damp spot on the oak panel of the bedhead. Not without a tinge of horror he realised that it was semen. “Is that mine or yours?”

John screwed his head around and made it to upright. “Ah…yours. I think.”

“It’s got everywhere.” Sherlock observed that it had dried on his belly. Sex was messy. Confusing, wonderful, rewarding and messy. Stimulating. A headrush as John had phrased it. Addictive.

“Mmm,” John laughed, “you came like a rocket. Explosive charge – collateral damage. Pass the holdall, please.”

Sherlock bent down and hauled the bag up onto his side of the bed, unzipped it and pulled out John’s clean briefs. He fished out a small box of paper handkerchiefs and gave that to John as a bottle of liquid caught his attention. “Lubricant.” The detective at the fore, Sherlock examined the bottle. “ Water based, suitable for use with condoms.”

“I had it from ages ago, it was in my wardrobe.” John wiped the headboard and looked for a waste-bin. “You seen a bin?”

“Bathroom.” Sherlock took the tissue between his fingertips and wobbled off to the bathroom. He was on a learning curve. Half of what he had said to John had been entirely spontaneous and had almost skirted on the border of lying about his fantasies. That didn’t make them less the truth, the temporal element was merely skewed. The key to unlocking John’s deepest desires could be more difficult than John discovering his, he realised.


	21. Lucky man.

While Sherlock ran himself a bath John had dressed and had gone to bring the bags from the car. Sherlock had noted the full length mirror in the bedroom and darted in to address the new issue that was beginning to circle in his brain. Namely, John had lubricant on hand. The moment of truth would come far earlier than Sherlock had calculated. John would take care that it was not too uncomfortable. That wasn’t the immediate concern. It was that his body was not soft, curvaceous or visually the corporeal landscape design that John was accustomed to. How to ensure that John was turned on by his alternatively configured assets?

 Sherlock stood with his back to the mirror and twisted around to look at the view that John would be seeing. He saw a small, round, slab-sided behind, all hard muscle.

 “Numquid, cum crisas, blandior esse potes?” Sherlock asked of himself. Could you possibly be prettier when you grind? Not a statement of his confidence. A question. John obviously appreciated a judicious swear word, it was called dirty talk. Would it work for John if it was in Latin? Words had power, they had shock value, there was taboo language. There was something pleasurable too in thinking about using language that would be their little secret.

 Sherlock bathed and thought. John had been unusually open. A couple of bottles of wine with a meal tonight would help that along. He had struck a deal with Harry to wine and dine John, after all. Would John wish to make the alteration to their relationship public? Tonight? Back in London? Mycroft wouldn’t need informing at all and he didn’t care whether his brother approved or not. If he had questions then John must have too. It was all a bit scary as well as wonderful. That suited him very well indeed.

 “John?” Sherlock called out as he heard John drop the bags.

 “Is it okay to come in?” John asked at the slightly open door.

 “Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”

 “I, just…” John pushed open the door and stood there smiling. “I could look at you all day.”

 “You can look at me over a table tonight.”

 “Be careful what you wish for.”

 Sherlock’s eyes opened wide at John’s bravura. “I’ve never…”

 “Never thought about it? You have now.” John smiled as if confident that he could make Sherlock think of anything. He could. He had. Sherlock smiled coyly, trying to not think about John’s warm hands sliding up his inner thighs as he bent forward over a table, a raging, leaking erection straining to be relieved. Trying not to think about aching to be touched, his back pressed to a table.

 “Did you think we would be doing what we did? You packed the lube.” Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual.

 “I didn’t expect it to happen so fast. I mean I wanted it to.” John admitted, candidly, with a warm, satisfied smile. “I just wasn’t expecting it would. But it wasn’t a shock. A pleasant surprise. Yeah, it was a very pleasant, unexpected surprise. It was the right time and place.”

 “It just happened.” Sherlock believed it had.

 “Yeah. The right time and place.” John replied. His words seeming to hold a wealth of meaning.

 Silence had never been so pregnant with thoughts as now in a steamy, warm bathroom that belonged to a grander home than their own flat. It had been a very good choice of getaway cottage.

 “Who is taking who out to dinner tonight?” John asked.

 “Whom. Who is taking whom. Take each other, I thought. Although I’m paying for it in the name of Ashton. Mycroft is paying for it actually, so feel free to choose a good place. Or would you like to be surprised?”

 “You always surprise me.” John smiled. “You can choose while I have a quick shower.”

 “I think that was what I was going to ask you when I called you.”

 “Right. In that case, I’m all yours.”

 

-o0o-

 

John emerged from the bathroom, pink and warm in a bath-towel and wasted no time in swooping in on Sherlock who had come back up to the bedroom to unpack his suit. John planted a kiss on Sherlock’s earlobe and sucked it into his mouth as Sherlock sat up on the bed from tying his shoe-laces. “I’m hungry.” John claimed softly around the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

 “So am I.” Sherlock answered scooping John into a slightly awkward embrace. “But I booked a table for dinner for eight-o-clock.”

 John smiled with contentment. Sherlock had learned how to flirt and that was great, love-making didn’t start at the business end, it began in the mind. Sherlock had stolen a chat up line from Irene but it was the thought that counted. There was a growing intimacy between them that had blossomed after Sherlock’s wonderful, and frankly awful, cack-handed attempt to seduce him into bed. As attempts went it had been crude but effective and it had driven it home to him that Sherlock had suddenly felt a bit out of his depth. That hurdle had been got over, though, so that was alright. It wouldn’t all be plain sailing from here, he knew that, but they had made a start. There was no going back from here and he could not be happier about that. The seemingly impossible had happened, the eternally indifferent to sex and emotionally unavailable Sherlock was his lover.

 John shifted around to kiss Sherlock on the lips, chastely, with affection, then tore himself away to get dry his hair and get dressed, before he had any more ideas about instantly ravishing the man he loved. He had a better idea.

 “What sort of place. Casual or a suit and tie?” John asked, finding the hairdryer.

 “Wear a suit, lose the tie though.” Sherlock smiled broadly and straightened his suit, looking in the mirror, watching John drying his hair.

 “I’ll be downstairs or we might not get out for dinner at all. Harry would be disappointed if I don’t feed you.” Sherlock added.

 “Have to keep your strength up.” John smiled. _God, mine too_.

 John dressed, applied product to his hair and gave himself a once-over look in the mirror to convince himself that he looked okay for his date. He grinned like a loon at that thought. A date with Sherlock. His suit was a similar colour to Sherlock’s blue suit, a little darker, less tailored but he looked smart. _You’ll do_. He trotted off down to where Sherlock was sitting in the chintzy room looking bored playing with the remote control for the television.

 Sherlock jumped up and virtually undressed him with his eyes. “You look. Well.”

 “You look edible.” John smiled cheekily.

 They exchanged a grin.

 

-o0o-

 The restaurant Sherlock had chosen was inside a large old public house that had been a coaching inn. John pulled carefully around a hairpin bend on a steep bank to manoeuvre them into the car park without grounding the Aston’s low slung bodywork. Inside, the patrons, Sherlock pointed out ranged from the recently retired teacher in cream trousers with a librarian wife in florals, to the young couple on holiday.

 The house specialities were ordered and, as usual, the conversation was about the case they were on.

 “This is gorgeous. How come Mycroft’s footing the bill?” John asked spearing one of the steak cut chips and a piece of vegetarian sausage.

 “The wife was the daughter of a French official. She had money, Greene was ambitious to buy into a playboy lifestyle.”

 John thought about it for a moment. “He was just acting the part, like Mary.”

 “Like being Sherlock Holmes.” The detective smiled.

 John laughed. “And Ash?”

 “Which ash, two-hundred and forty-three of them.” Sherlock took the question literally and, heart-meltingly beautifully, entirely wrongly.

 John leaned across the table, his voice low and his face mild and suggestive. “The one that wants me to look at him.”

 It was Sherlock’s turn to lose food from his fork.

 John leaned back and smiled into his lap. “I’m going to find out what else Ashton wants.”

 Sherlock had flushed at the idea of John being able to discover what turned him on. John felt the room temperature rise.

 “If he doesn’t tell you?” Sherlock asked with eyes softly glinting with curiosity

 “I’ll get him to show me.”

 “How?”

 John smiled enigmatically, enjoying having brought colour to the pale skin over those sexy, high cheekbones.

 “You could tell me now.” Sherlock wheedled, squirming in his seat.

 “Not over _this_ table. People would talk.”

 John knew he wasn’t going to get far pitting his wits against Sherlock’s gift for rising to a challenge. Still, he felt that he saw in the flickering eyes that cogs turning in Sherlock’s brain.

 “There’s a quiet, little place I’m renting, not far from here. You could come back for coffee.” Sherlock suggested carefully.

 “You could be taking home a dangerous man with a concealed weapon.” That would have sounded cheesy anywhere else, and with anyone else, John thought as he kept a straight face promising Sherlock the unpredictable.

 “What’s life without a little danger. Shall we?”

  _Good man, nicely picked up._ John produced the car keys and dropped them by the side of Sherlock’s plate.

 As Sherlock scooped up the keys and made for the till John smiled. Driving would take at least a part of Sherlock’s mind off what would happen when they got back to the cottage. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to feel under pressure that something had to happen, and happen in a certain way. It was obvious that Sherlock was somewhere on the passive side in matters sexuale, so John wanted to see how far that went, but with care. Making assumptions could lead to an unsatisfying disaster.

 

Sherlock drove carefully, with his customary slickness of movement. There was no wasted energy, his driving was efficient and, John thought, he could probably jump into any vehicle and make it an extension of his hands. Openly stealing glances, admiring Sherlock’s hands with a smile was fair play now. The detective’s efficiency became less controlled, more languid, and relaxed as the dark shapes of trees flitted by on unlit roads. John’s hand edged at the side of Sherlock’s thigh causing Sherlock to wobble, the car responded like a part of him wiggling in a sudden little zig-zag. Sherlock was obviously sensitive to touch.

 John’s hand crept smoothly over Sherlock’s thigh as they passed the clock tower and it rested over Sherlock’s crotch by the time they had parked. Sherlock squirmed and pressed John’s hand down firmly over the swelling.

 John leaned in. “I have a fantasy. I find you naked, would you like to choose where? For me.”

 “Anywhere specific?”

 “Anywhere. Surprise me. I find you, naked, and naked means you are gorgeous and hot.”

 “Give me five minutes.”

 “Five minutes to seeing you wanting to be touched. No cheating and touching yourself.” John pulled his hand away from the growing bulge under his palm. Sherlock made the tiniest of sounds sending a pulse of pleasure through John’s groin. “I’m a damn lucky man.”


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock smiled through the agony of the delay, he burned to be running his hands and lips all over John’s body searching for more places that would make John groan and arch for him. “I’m the lucky one.”

Sherlock moved quickly to open the cottage door and stood for a moment to think about how to make this perfect for John. It was time to decide where to make himself ready for what John wanted after John had been so careful and caring in his restraint. His brain had near deserted him in his hour of need as he sprang eagerly up the stairs. He rustled John’s holdall for the bottle of lube. There were no condoms but there was no need for them, he was healthy and John had checked he was too, months ago.

He had decided he wanted John to have him completely without reservation, and in comfort, tonight. He chose the bedroom, logically for being next to the bathroom for convenient clearing up after. After losing his virginity. Sherlock had not held his virginity as at all important until that moment. Maybe people quietly let it slip by as something to be forgotten about, at university some of his fellow students had behaved as if it was something terrible and to be got rid of. Perhaps they, being different, should celebrate it, he dashed down for the bottle of Gewürztraminer he had put in the fridge and found two glasses then pelted back upstairs again.

His nerves jangled with excitement as he ripped off his shoes, tugged off his socks and then pulled at his jacket buttons, flung it over a chair, quickly took off his shirt and trousers and looked at the rumpled bed. One minute and seven seconds left. On intuition Sherlock ran the shower, peeled off his briefs and stepped under the waterfall. Sherlock waited facing the tiles in the relaxing warmth, his legs apart, his member already swelling, jutting out with anticipation. Vibrating with want, untouched, he looked through the bathroom door as he heard John ascend the stairs quietly. Sherlock’s heart bumped wildly with anticipation as John stopped in the hall, evidently listening.  Sherlock was suddenly nervous to look out and half hid his face behind his arm bracing his body away from the wall.

 

***

John heard the water and went into the bedroom soundlessly over the rag rug and dark varnished floorboards, reaching behind his back and withdrawing his gun from his waistband.

“There you are.” John said, confidently standing at ease, thorough enjoying looking at the most desirable man alive, naked and gorgeous, rivulets of water pouring over hard, rounded muscle and soft creamy skin. Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise and he shivered visibly, staring with an almost reverent awe at John and then at the gun pointing to the ceiling.

“You, you brought your gun with you.” Sherlock managed just a second before John cocked his Sig.

Sherlock shuddered and closed his eyes as the metallic sound echoed off the hard tiles. The familiar sound rang in John’s ears, he smiled, blushing and moved from Sherlock’s sight to lay his weapon on the antique pine chest. Sherlock hadn’t moved apart from panting, head down when John looked through the door again.

 _Someone should paint that. It’d draw crowds in an art gallery._ “I’m never going to get tired of seeing you without clothes on.” John began undressing in the doorway, throwing off his clothes, his eyes taking in every curve of muscle, each line and every rib and vertebrae of Sherlock's.

“John.” Was all Sherlock got out, breathlessly in a sinful low tone, soft and filled with need.

“You have the most delightful, little arse.” John smiled, tilting his head.

John stepped naked into the shower and placed himself behind Sherlock, bending over his back. Sherlock pushed backwards into John’s body revelling in the heat, his bent head below his elbows. John’s hands brushed the damp thighs as he kissed Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock melted and John felt dizzy in a pleasant way starting to knead Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling water down the angles of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, the pale skin slipping under his wet hands. His palms dragged downward to the narrow waist. Sherlock gasped and pushed against John. John inched Sherlock’s feet further apart and his hands glided over the pert bottom until he could separate himself, touching lightly only.

Sherlock moaned, standing with his sinewy legs spread apart, his toes curling, gripping the floor.

“John, I want you to have me. I’ll expire if you don’t take me tonight.” Sherlock’s eyes were clear, a little wild and stormy.

“Mm, in a bit.” John promised revelling in the beauty before his eyes. Sherlock breathing hard through deep pink, parted lips, pushed for more contact. John reached for the shower gel and poured a generous amount over Sherlock’s delightful rear until Sherlock groaned and panted loudly, becoming lost in the moment of sensations flooding the gloriously brilliant mind.

John’s hand caressed over Sherlock’s hip and across his belly. “I want to be inside you. Come here first.” John turned Sherlock around and offered his mouth up to Sherlock’s lips and tongue. It was too difficult to smile and have his mouth plundered so forcefully and John gave up to Sherlock’s fervour kissing him strongly in return. They would have pressed each other closer to coming but John wanted it to last until Sherlock was utterly unable to think straight. “Will you stand with your hands behind your back for me?”

Sherlock nodded squirming with pleasure as John soaped his hips and nudged his feet apart again. Slowly John soaped the creases of Sherlock’s groin, his hands brushing lightly on the edge of Sherlock’s manhood proclaiming its owners intense desire. Sherlock leaned back, his wet curls pressed against the white tiles, giving himself over to being soaped, uttering small sounds and gulping in breath as John took him in his hands and began stroking lightly and very slowly. Sherlock’s thighs trembled while John’s hands teased around Sherlock’s cock.

“That’s good. Come out here with me.” John asked, closing his lips again on the plump cushions of Sherlock’s mouth, he grabbed a dry towel. John’s mouth led Sherlock to the bed and they collapsed onto it a tangle of limbs vying for the hold that satisfied them.

Sherlock broke from kissing to fetch in a breath and gazed into John’s eyes. John guessed that the dark, liquid pools of Sherlock’s eyes mirrored his own. Everything they felt surely passed between them unspoken, then as one they were twining limbs again. Sherlock’s writhing set new sparks of desire flaming in John’s groin, his skin alive and sensitive under Sherlock’s long, urgent fingers.

John piled the pillows into a stack and dragged them to the centre of the bed putting the towel down. Sherlock groaned and hastily draped himself over the stack putting his head in his arms. “It feels…”

“Relax.” John reached under and caressed Sherlock’s erection. He was rewarded by a delicious wriggle and a gasp. He inched around Sherlock’s side stroking the delightfully pert, smooth bottom and planting small kisses up Sherlock’s spine until he could reach for the lube. Sherlock rocked his hips, his erection pushing against the pillows. John paused to dribble lube into his palm entranced by Sherlock’s glorious behind tightening and slackening, the muscles moving rhythmically.

 _Don’t need to teach you at all, you’re feeling your own way perfectly._ John kissed Sherlock’s spine again travelling downwards until he could smear the lube down the channel between Sherlock’s buttocks. Sherlock heaved and shuddered as John’s fingers stroked down the entrance and over the perineum. John propped the bottle up and concentrated on Sherlock’s rear, smoothing it with upward strokes, kneading the muscle until his lover relaxed. John poised a finger to circle dropping more lube on the channel. Sherlock hissed and pushed backwards trying to enclose John’s finger. Between the pushes from both John’s finger slipped into the tight heat.

“I can feel your heartbeat.” John breathed.

“More, John, I need to have you inside me.”

John inserted a second finger smoothly and Sherlock pushed back then gasped and let out a guttural rumble. John had found Sherlock’s prostate and his breath hitched.

“Please, John, do it.”

“Don’t want to hurt you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock moaned, writhing.

 It did matter to John who poured more lube onto himself and on Sherlock.. “If you sit on top. You control it.”

 “No.” Sherlock bleated.

 John fingered Sherlock’s prostate eliciting a whine at the back of the man’s throat until he had three sopping fingers in the wet heat. “You’ll tell me if it hurts.”

“Yes, yes. John, please!”

 Withdrawing his fingers made Sherlock bleat again. “This way, John, please, for god’s sake.”

Sherlock presented himself with wide eyes and sank his head onto his forearms. John hitched him into a good position, straddled between his thighs, stroking Sherlock’s length until Sherlock had the sheets in a fierce grip and he was heaving in breath between sounds of pleasure and exasperation and sought to take John’s length. John poised his length carefully before seeking entry.

“You’re so tight.” John murmured pushing his tip in slowly until there was resistance. He stroked Sherlock’s cock until the ring of muscle gave him admittance.

“That’s it, yes.” Sherlock wriggled himself comfortable as John stroked and rocked gently.

“So good.” John increased his speed checking Sherlock’s face until he had the angle that worked best for them. In moments John’s world blurred with the mutual gasps and sounds between hot breath.

“John, I’m gonna…aahh.”

“Yes.” John’s hand on Sherlock’s hip bone and a slippery fist around Sherlock’s length anchored him from flying away.

Sherlock came with a loud sob and mumbled John’s name with ‘love’ and ‘fuck’ woven around it.

“Oh Sher...” John lost all control, pushed in and came immediately.

They collapsed together in moments with John covering Sherlock’s body, both spent of energy. John’s softening erection slipped out as Sherlock struggled to turn over onto his back, their limbs found a resting place in an untidy, carefree sprawl. Sherlock’s arm draped over John’s back and John slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair. Neither were able to move for several minutes of getting their breath back, John trying to take some of his own weight off Sherlock.

John, slid to lie by Sherlock’s side, his leg hooked between Sherlock’s warm, spread thighs. His fingers threaded through Sherlock’s hair, rubbing gently and sliding through the damp strands.

“I’ve gone dizzy.” John mumbled, his bones liquefied, contented and still amazed.

Sherlock’s fingers lovingly circled John’s erect nipple. “John, are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah. Are you all right?” John asked quietly.

“I think so.” Sherlock murmured nuzzling into John’s chest and breathing in deeply. His fingers described little circles, spiralling down John’s skin in an aimless trail. “I mean yes, I am. Very much so.”

John smiled. “A bomb could have gone off and I wouldn’t have noticed”

Sherlock chuckled in a deep rumble. John felt it vibrate through his throat and chest. “Are we going to tell people?”

“Do you want to?”

“I want to, if you do.” Sherlock hesitated. “But being assumed to be a couple made us vulnerable to anyone who would use it against us.”

“Like Greene?”

“Not Brendan Greene, it’s an advantage with him.” Sherlock moved to look at John’s face.

“You’ve lost me.”

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow. “Greene likes the chase, the more unavailable the object of interest the greater the challenge, the greater the challenge the more interested he would be, in theory.”

John considered that. “You want him to think he can steal you away from me, if he really tried though?”

“Yes.”

“No.” John tensed at the thought of Greene as much as looking at Sherlock.

“Jealousy becomes you.” Sherlock smiled.

“I trust you completely, I just don’t like to think of him looking at you like you’re a piece of fresh meat.”

“I wouldn’t let him touch me. All of me belongs to you now.” Sherlock resettled his head on the pillow closer to John’s throat and blew gently on John’s neck.

“You do. And you have all of me. Are you trying to get me going again?”

 “I liked when you did that, but not tonight, I think. You’ve worn me out for tonight.”

 “I might get lucky tomorrow.” John smiled.

 “You might.” Sherlock returned with a smile.

 “You have a plan, then, with Greene?” John reached across pushing his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulled out strands idly, enjoying the feel, knowing that Sherlock enjoyed it.

 “Mycroft sent a folder of gathered intelligence. They aren’t interested in what he gets up to but his first victim was a foreign official’s daughter so there’s been interest in Greene for swindling and suspected murder. They can’t obtain a warrant to enter his house though.”

 “So, you need to get into his private quarters to find evidence of everything else to start an official investigation.” John turned inwards to face Sherlock and drink in the gold and hazel shards just lighting the sapphire blue again.

 “He owns the house at Tipton, that’s where he keeps his lust diaries.”

 “Lust diaries?” Johns’ fingers paused in Sherlock’s nape where there was an inviting curl.

 “His records of his conquests. Names, dates, photographs, tapes and discs, all of it. Kitty says he keeps it in his study. She came in with everything she knows, you must have been at the surgery that day.”

 “Okay.

 “I’ve sent for Wiggins to fetch one of his solutions.”

 “Sherlock, you can’t put a whole houseful of party guests to sleep.”

“I won’t have to. I’ll make him invite me to an even more private party the next evening. His housekeeper, Mrs Dawlish, only goes in when he’s there, the only people in the house at night are himself and his minder.”

“What do you want me to do?” John asked, lazily twining the curl in his finger and thumb.

“Get friendly with his minder and slip Billy’s little herbal soother into his drink. Put the minder out of action for a few hours, Billy will stay with him. We don’t need any ugly corpses. I’ll slip Greene a dose of it then I’ll find you. We’ll take Kitty’s file, keep it as evidence, she’ll testify against him and take the record of Hardtstof as well. He’s dead it can’t harm him.”

“What about the other victims? It’ll cause a hell of a lot of distress with skeletons falling out of cupboards right, left and centre if their sex lives are dragged through the papers.”

“Burn it then, put the rest on the fire.”

“What if he’s moved it all?”

“Plan B.”

 “What’s plan B?”

 “I don’t know yet. I find it very difficult to think with you playing with my hair. I’ll think of something.”

 John smiled. “Do you now. I’ll remember that. At least there are real files not like Magnussen’s.”

 “Yes. Magnussen obviously had the architect under his thumb.”

 “Mm well my thumb’s on top of you, so they can just get used to the idea that Sherlock Holmes is off the market.”

 “That sounds perfect.” Sherlock returned to plundering John’s mouth.

 “I can see you being insatiable.” John murmured flicking his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip when they came up for air. “Was it good for you, like that?”

 Sherlock smirked and detached himself.

 “Oi, I hadn’t finished flirting with you yet.” John only half-serious objected as Sherlock reached for John’s gun and returned to John’s side, draping himself over John as before. John smirked as Sherlock nuzzled his neck and sought out the sweet spot.

 Sherlock slid the barrel’s cold end to John’s nipple.

 John shivered and thrust his hand into Sherlock’s hair, gripping. “You looked marvellous. It was as much as I could do to stop myself bending you over in the shower and having you right there.”

 “I half thought you might do.”

 “Did you want me to?”

 “I might have done.” Sherlock replied airily.

 “Noted.” John smiled, a contented man.


	23. Chapter 23

John couldn’t remember going to sleep, there had been Sherlock’s long limbs around him, he had felt contented, and he woke in the same way with a pair of gold freckled green-blue eyes looking into his. A crease of a smile came with them. Sherlock trailed his hand down John’s chest before he decided to head for the bathroom. “I’ll make some breakfast in a minute.” John smiled.

“What have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” John asked as Sherlock strolled into the kitchen, dressed immaculately in a blue suit and pale blue shirt, his face smooth and shaved to perfection.

The contented smirk on Sherlock’s lips told the tale. “I might ask you that same question.”

John tilted his head. “Ah, so, it’s my fault you’re an attractive man.”

“Everything’s always your fault.” Sherlock replied, looking triumphant.

 “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” John laughed and batted the kettle on to boil.

John remembered the way that Sherlock had attempted to tidy up the flat when John went to see it and how he had been frustrated at needing an assistant instead of Phillip Anderson. He had wondered why Sherlock chose him out of millions of people.

 “I had a look at your gun.”

 John smirked. Sherlock had been so distracted last night he hadn’t noticed that John had not loaded it. The chamber had been empty from its last cleaning session, the click had been all harmless noise. “You looked damn sexy, all available and wanting me. But, like I’d caught you like that.”

 “You like it if I look vulnerable. That’s sexy?”

 “What a conversation to be having while the kettle boils.” John shook his head smiling. Sherlock asked the oddest questions.

 “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, shall I.” Sherlock smirked, lounging casually against the worktop. “I want to make it good for you.”

 “It was good, we don’t have to dress it up in fancy clothes.” John dropped four slices of bread into the toaster.

 “Handcuffs are out then, I suppose.” Sherlock was deducing John with sharply focussed eyes searching for the smallest details.

 “Oh, god.” John’s hand paused on the toaster switch. Sherlock was going to be heaven and hell all rolled into one between the sheets as well as out of them. It made John almost nervous to think about the fantasies he had brought himself off with.

 “Ooh, handcuffs are in then. What else do you like. How would you like Ashton?”

 “I like it when you look astounded and your brain has stopped analysing it like you are cataloguing it all for later use.” John stirred Sherlock’s sugar into his coffee. The tinkle of the spoon was surreal while Sherlock was busy sounding out John’s sexual preferences. John would have preferred to have that sort of conversation in bed at night, quietly. He smiled. Sherlock was trying to make this work and he would have to overcome being shy about what he found sexy. “I like it when you don’t know exactly what’s going to happen next.”

 “Last night was pretty good for you too then.” Sherlock probed lightly.

 “Mind-blowing wouldn’t be too strong a word for it.” John admitted, passing Sherlock his coffee. Their hands touched which was enough now to make John’s breath catch.

 “I didn’t think this would be possible or sensible then it was the only sensible and possible thing to do.” Sherlock looked down into John’s eyes as John looked up.

 “I had no idea you were a secret romantic.” John muttered and felt himself blush.

 Sherlock pulled John into a hug. “We all have shadows where our fears hide.”

 “Yeah, I know.” John nodded into the warmth of Sherlock’s body.

 Sherlock bent his head to John’s ear. “I will not abandon you. I will not leave you. Not willingly.”

 “I know.” John sniffed and poked at his eye. Sherlock could make him feel like he was flying and right now could reduce him to tears with such heartfelt promises. “There’s a ‘but’, though, isn’t there?”

 “Yes. I have a reputation to keep, John, the one in your blog, the one I’ve presented as Sherlock Holmes for public consumption.”

 “Keep them guessing, you mean. Except for Brendan Greene.” John suggested as the church bells clattered in the distance. He would be nothing less than proud to introduce Sherlock as his boyfriend or partner and be seen out with him but Sherlock was right, they didn’t need to tell anyone or need to try to explain what they were to anyone.

 “That was what I was suggesting.”

 “That’s not a problem, Sherlock, it really isn’t.” John detached himself to catch the toast as it popped up and buttered it quickly. “So, plans for today?”

 Sherlock nodded, seeming satisfied. “Soil and rock samples.”

 John spread marmalade over the first slice of toast and chuckled. “Why didn’t I think of that. And stop at a chemist or shop for more lube while we’re out.”

 “Don’t need to. I brought some.” Sherlock waltzed off gaily biting into the buttered toast and marmalade.

 “Did you bring your handcuffs as well?” John called out to the disappearing detective.

 “Might-have-done.” Sherlock mumbled with a crumby mouth. Too well brought up to speak with his mouth full but always wanting to have to have the last word. John smiled as he delved the knife into the marmalade. And Sherlock liked being teased. There were possibilities there for fun when he felt on more certain ground.

  

-o0o-

 Tipton revealed itself on the ground as a small market town with a river that seemed too puny to warrant the bulky, grey stone bridge over the shingle. The Aston’s engine growled between the walls and wound through a stretch of road punctuated by street lights and after a few minutes that gave way to an unlit road lined by hedges hiding meadows glimpsed only in gaps. Sherlock’s hand wedged comfortably under John’s thigh as John drove in his role as personal assistant.

 “Greene will soon draw the conclusion that there is something between us if you let it show that you bed me.” Sherlock remarked.

 “Did I bed you or did you bed me? I think you made the running.”

 “It was you, you couldn’t take your eyes off my rear on the drive up. Every time we stopped for coffee and petrol.”

 “It turned you on.” John saw the pattern now. Sherlock enjoyed being viewed as John’s object of desire. Of course he did. John enjoyed admiring Sherlock’s intelligence, all the while Sherlock gave off a subtle signal, ‘seduce me with your desire for me’. It was like a detonation in John’s brain lighting up silver flashing lights. Sherlock’s fantasies made sense. For Sherlock’s plea _Teach me_ substitute ‘Take me’.

 “You can be very frustrating, John.”

_My god!_ “I could make you come apart tonight.”

 Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered. “Tonight I must appear to be unwilling.”

 “That sounds…”

 “Add that to your list.” Sherlock replied immediately.

 John’s face must have looked as if he hadn’t taken it in “Our list, list.” Sherlock added.

_Imaginative_ and _insatiable. His list of possible ways to make Sherlock a puddle of trembling frustrated desire expanded. Do it in bed and talk about it outside of bed._ “What else would you like me to do?” If Sherlock was in a mood to let slip some of his best kept secrets, then John was taking mental notes in a moleskin notepad.

 “Investigate. Like you were when talking to Henry’s doctor at Grimpen.”

 It was like having two conversations at once again. It rested on the toss of a coin into the air to decide whether Sherlock was taking the question literally or he was simply avoiding answering. _Leaving me to work it out. Tactical withdrawal. You are as easy to have a relationship with as trying to shovel Scotch mist into a wheelbarrow. If he doesn’t want to be asked maybe it’s just because he doesn’t have an answer. Maybe he doesn’t want to be asked what he would like_. John slowed at the crossroads uncertain of the route. The signs, skewed by a strong wind, turned on their post made the directions a nonsense.

 “Turn left.” Sherlock said.

 John took the turn taking them down a narrow road which brought them to a Lodge house by a stone wall punctuated by wrought iron gates, the drive gave an open vista of an impressive house beyond a small lake. John let out a low whistle. “It’s the Welsh cottage on steroids.”

 Even Sherlock seemed to take a moment to appreciate the dramatic setting of the residence. Several cars were neatly lined up, all gleamed with polish in the Aston’s headlights as John slotted in next to them. “Fourteen female guests, three couples and we’re the only monogamous couple.” Sherlock deduced.

 The guests were in pairs and small groups in the massive long dining room already drinking champagne as if it was cream-flavoured sparkling water as Sherlock and John were led through to the wide staircase by a maid. Upstairs Sherlock was assigned a separate bedroom to John. Downstairs the Valentines theme was tacky, according to Sherlock. “Thirty-something failed driving instructor with a bad leg and a sister who is a teacher. She hates him but he employs her in his Party Planner business with a clientele of mainly middle income couples mortgaged up to the hilt.”

 John’s eyebrows questioned.

 “The balloons are cheap and the cards were printed on a school printer by the sister. You can tell by the ink.”

 To John the silver writing on the red heart-shaped balloons filled with helium wasn’t really his idea of romantic. Romance was waking that morning in a soft bed in a hide-away cottage in a sleepy village, hearing the church clock chime as Sherlock nestled into him. Sherlock’s leg over his, keeping them close, Sherlock craving as much bare skin to bare skin contact as possible.

Romance had been a warm, pliant Sherlock snuggled up with his head over John’s heart, the silky curls tickling John’s nose waking him softly. Romance had been a hotel room in Cardiff filled with innuendo.

Romance had been exchanging smiles while Sherlock filled the small plastic bags with soil samples and stealing kisses under a tree while sheep bleated on a distant hill and the wind stirred the autumnal leaves over their heads.

The height of romance had been strolling by the river to collect a sample and following Sherlock into the shallows of the river, socks and shoes hastily discarded and their trousers rolled past their knees, holding hands and stepping from rock to rock with shining contented faces and eyes that said life was wonderful being loved.

 And the proof of Sherlock’s love was in the tidal mill in the heart-breaking concern on Sherlock’s face when Sherlock had surfaced from the brown Thames water with trembling lips and had pulled John to him. Sherlock allowing John to be intimate, pushing a straggly curl out of his eyes, just looking at each other as if they had chanced upon the love of their lives.

 “This morning was nice.” John said, looking around the room.

 “And this afternoon.” Sherlock smiled. “Oh, our charming host.” He added as Brendan Greene lifted a glass of champagne to them. “He needn’t think I’m going to wave.”

 “Sher…Just look. Unavailable.” John smiled pleasantly at Greene who collected a couple from the drinks table and glided over.

 “Ash, meet Cynthia and Gerald. Scott Ashton and John Hill.” Brendan Greene introduced a tall, willowy brunette with chocolate brown eyes and the man with classically attractive symmetrical green eyes and a body-builder’s physique. “John, excuse me while I introduce Ash to Bella and Melvyn. Try those profiteroles, they are melt-in-the-mouth.” Greene steered Sherlock away. John’s eyes followed Sherlock across the room. He did his best to make pleasant conversation but felt at a disadvantage listening to Cynthia and Gerald passing comments on the performances of actors he had no interest in. They all drifted to the finger buffet and sampled the tiny strawberry profiteroles like good guests.

 “Gorgeous, John.” Cynthia smiled, daintily licking her fingers and popping one in her lipstick red mouth, sucking it suggestively.

 John would have responded wolfishly if such an attractive young woman had come on to him in his bachelor days. _You did, and you ended up at Battersea Power Station. And who was lurking in the shadows but Sherlock. Hearing you losing your rag with Irene and basically protesting enough about not being with Sherlock to advertise it in Leicester Square sized neon flashing lights that you wished you were. He knew then._  “He knows how to throw a party.” John replied, resisting the impulse to remove himself from the uncomfortable situation. He had his instructions, be sociable, drink, eat, be merry and find out whatever he could about Greene. “Have you been to one before?”

 “This is my third. You should see his playroom, John.”

 “Really? A playroom. That sounds interesting.” He smiled genuinely having hit investigative gold.

 “Oh, it is, would you like me to show you?”

 “Yes, you have me intrigued.” John smiled and sipped his champagne. He sipped the smallest amount in the hope of avoiding a banging headache in the small hours when he had every intention of pinning Sherlock to the bed and seeing Sherlock in handcuffs, hard, frustrated and aching for release. His ears rang with Sherlock’s delicious deep voice saying ‘please’.

 “Now or later?” Cynthia said, loudly.

John realised he had drifted off in his thoughts. “No time like the present.” He was about to set his drink down when Cynthia shook her head. “Bring it with you. Might need refreshing first.”

 “Oh, right.” John smiled, refilling their glasses from the Moet on ice. “That’ll keep us going.”

 “If you would follow me?”

 John smiled again and swept a hand out to Cynthia to lead on. She was an attractive girl with a pert little bottom swaying suggestively as she looked over her shoulder. He looked for Sherlock who was in conversation with Greene. They were standing rather closer together than John liked. Cynthia sashayed their direction and left him with Sherlock while she spoke to Greene who took her to the side.

 “Getting somewhere?” Sherlock enquired close to John’s ear.

 “There’s a playroom, she’s going to show it to me.” John whispered.

 “Grab my wrist and look like you own it.”

 “I do own it.” John said with a thick voice, grasping Sherlock’s wrist. The words slipped out of his mouth unbidden before John could think. Sherlock stiffened visibly, although if that was in response to him or Sherlock acting, John couldn’t tell.

 “Feel free to use the facilities, I like my guests to enjoy themselves thoroughly.” Brendan Greene oozed, looking down at Sherlock pulling his hand away, holding it limply like an injury.

 “This way.” Cynthia offered.

John met Sherlock’s clouded gaze. _We’re each other’s exceptions._

 The playroom was unsurprisingly down a flight of stairs in a cellar. It was a luxury cellar, however, a black cupboard occupied one wall, the remainder were painted purple, red and black. It would have been clichéd were it not for the expensive lighting glinting on a chrome frame in the centre of the room. That wasn’t the first thing that arrested John’s attention. A woman in gaudy dress resembling a circus ring master rubbed her hand over a bare (male) backside jutting up from a purple leather bench. Irene Adler would have had a classier chintzy room John imagined. “We’re interrupting.” John apologised. “Sorry.”

 “Miss Valentine.” Cynthia introduced the woman feeling the man’s bottom, hot pink on the cheeks showed up in stark contrast against the surrounding white flesh.

 “That’s not her real name, is it?” John asked quietly, although the woman seemed oblivious to their presence.

 “Do you like to watch or play?” His escort giggled, asking sweetly. Invitingly.

_My god, she’s asking if I want to…I don’t know what she’s asking. Course you bloody know. Neither._ “The equipment is interesting.”

 It might have been interesting if Sherlock was involved but otherwise it was simply strange, alien furniture. John took in the purple, leather massage table, the matching benches and the glittering metal frame with chrome rings and large purple metal clips used by rock climbers. If there was a word for the clips John had forgotten it as he wondered what the attraction of watching a pair of strangers indulging in their sort of fun was all about. The woman continued to palm the flesh as if feeling the buttock cheeks for heat.

 The man, covered from head to toe in a sort of Spider-man outfit, apart from the holes for his private parts and his bum, was mumbling ‘no, no, no’ between panting but he was enjoying it.

 John walked to the chrome frame with Cynthia who posed herself alluringly, reaching her hand up to one of the rings, poking her finger through it. It was meant to be sexy but John wasn’t finding it so. He chuckled wryly at being right about being ruined by Sherlock for anyone else. Cynthia took his laughter as encouragement and threw her head back forcing her breasts out towards him.

 The gist of Kitty’s words floated back to his mind. _I won’t say what he’s into._ Greene watched or played but John couldn’t decide which. He took photographs and made videos, at least they knew that. So, Miss Valentine was possibly a kind of ring mistress putting on a performance for Greene with a consenting individual like the man she was teasing. “I like taking photographs.” John went with.

 “I can be your artist’s model.” Cynthia struck the sort of pose John had seen in videos passed around Camp Bastion, in Afghanistan. He took a couple of snaps on his phone, smiled, and stepped back to get one of Miss Valentine for good measure. “Good.” John approved, pleased at the evidence he was collecting. Cynthia took to pouting and showing her cleavage provocatively again. He moved to take another picture with the woman in the background now teasing the man’s flesh with a riding crop administering short slaps.

 Voices and footsteps on the steps stopped as Greene entered the room like a man who surveyed his world and found it to his liking. Sherlock, a few steps behind looked tense, dropping his gaze as Greene turned to him for a moment. Greene feigned surprise before his benign gaze returned to John. “Well, you have your priorities in order. Cynthi loves to play in public. Don’t you, darling.” Greene smiled in the way that a benefactor for good would do.

 “Maybe later. I thought I’d have a nibble first.” John smiled mildly, he intended to pass by and return to the buffet table before Greene asked him a question he couldn’t answer.

 “So did I.” Greene’s eyes creased in the corners as his smile grew, then flicked to Sherlock. “Not everyone has such a good appetite as yourself.

 “No.”

 “Outside catering has benefits, I find.”

 “It tastes better when someone else makes it for you.” John relaxed.

 “You prefer home cooking?”

 “I don’t mind. There’s a lot of eating out in our line of work.” Usually their favourite Chinese restaurant, fish and chips, or a meal snatched in a café. Actors dined courtesy of the catering van and at hotels. It wasn’t lying, he was just being ambiguous, John thought.

 Greene warmed to the conversation. “Ah, good, splendid. It’s refreshing to find a man who agrees. So many morons in this industry, they say whatever they think you want to hear. Miss Valentine provides an unsurpassed variety of menu, an exciting range of food for thought.”

 John realised he was having two conversations again “I’m sure she can.” He looked over his shoulder at the dominatrix who had stopped work and wore a look of bored dissatisfaction at the disruption.

 “You don’t share your toy. I hope you will be imaginative with the frame. I saw it interested you.”

 “It certainly made me think.”

 “I look forward to that seeing little treat. There is a changing room and outfits, all the equipment you may find fun is in these cupboards, quite a toy-box, if I may say so myself. Perhaps something a little special will catch your eye. Perhaps it already has.” Greene’s eyes seemed to twinkle with anticipation and knowing.

 “Excuse me, I…I…” Sherlock stammered. He swayed slightly then turned away and bent over with his hand to his mouth, slavering a drool of watery saliva.

 John dashed forward almost forgetting that they were undercover. “Ashton!”

 Sherlock flapped his hand and looked stricken. “Oysters.” He looked up with watering eyes like a tearful child and sat down on the steps with a thump, his legs seemingly giving way.

 “Oysters.” John echoed. Sherlock hadn’t eaten seafood. He went to help Sherlock to stand but Sherlock pulled away glaring viciously. “Get. Off. Me.”

 “I haven’t served the oysters yet.” Greene said, puzzled.

 “Sumatra Road, an ocean of oysters, horrible, waving eyes.” Sherlock babbled, his words broken by short gasps for breath. He focussed on John again with wild eyes and clutched at John’s arm forcing a scrap of paper at him. “Please, John.”

 “Oh, god.” John realised it was a list. “Not again.”

 “What?” Greene asked.

 “He makes a list of what he’s taken.” John sniffed. Sherlock had claimed he only took drugs when he was bored, never when working on a case. _I sent for Wiggins_. Sherlock was faking it but Plan A was supposed to be tomorrow when there were no guests in the way. “Up you get.” He hoisted Sherlock up, pulling Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder and slotted himself under Sherlock’s armpit. “He needs to go to bed, that’s all, he’ll be fine.”

 “If you are sure.” Greene hesitated. “I would call for the village doctor but we don’t want to trouble the police. The interruption to the party, all these respectable actors, a scandal."

_Yeah, you gloating bastard, would know all about how much they fear a scandal._ “I’ll stay with him. I’m sure he’ll apologise personally to you tomorrow.”

 Greene’s features cleared into the very picture of geniality and charm. “I did wonder why he had a personal assistant, but it’s clear now. I’m sure you know how to handle him.”

 “I’m not a child.” Sherlock muttered petulantly.

 Out of sight of Sherlock was very co-operative and steady on his feet as John steered them up to the bedroom. Inside the door Sherlock snapped it shut and turned the key. “Oscar performance, John.”

 “Yours or mine.”

 “You were rather convincing.” Sherlock faltered.

 “You had me worr- m” John was cut off mid-sentence by Sherlock’s hands squeezing John’s hips, his lips being plundered for a kiss. John held Sherlock’s waist and pushed a gap between them. “That’s not going to get you off the hook. I was worried.”

 “Not trying to escape that. I have far too much respect for you to ask you to lie. I had to convince Greene that I was taken ill.”

 “Well, you convinced me alright! How did you fake it?”

 “While you were talking I turned away and slipped a slice of lemon in my mouth. Nature did the rest.” Sherlock produced the wet slice of fruit from his pocket and grinned.

 “What went wrong? You were waiting for Billy to come tomorrow.”

 “Greene wanted a free show. I’m sure you are not suggesting that we make a spectacle of ourselves for Greene to get off on.”

 “Of course not.” John laughed at Sherlock’s mock-horrified face. “You know about that sort of stuff?” He stepped back as Sherlock steered him to the bed.

 “I thought you knew I did.”

 “Well, Irene.”

 “No.” Sherlock frowned. “The day we met at the lab I was proving that bruises from a riding crop were the result of a post mortem assault to make it look like the victim was into being recreationally scolded in order to frame his new girlfriend. You undoubtedly know about it.”

 “I’m a doctor. It’s rare, but you see an accidental rope burn or bruises, carpet burns that sort of thing, and it’s not what the patient has come in about. You aren’t there to report people for getting off how they enjoy…getting off with a consenting partner. Unless it’s abuse.”

 “Quite right too.” Sherlock smiled.

 “I took a few photographs. I don’t know if they’ll be useful.” John sat down on the bed and fished out his phone.

 Sherlock sat down at John’s side and peered at the images of Cynthia cavorting on the frame and the dominatrix at work in the gloom of the ornate lights at the back of the room. “I’m sure the room will match up with Greene’s lust diaries. That’s Cynthia Lush, she’s probably called Smith in her real life. The main lighting suggests he makes digital records. Those would be easy to market through a mainstream distributor. Don’t looked so shocked, John, there are thousands of those DVD’s openly for sale. He must have a steady income to maintain his lifestyle.”

 “I thought she looked a bit familiar.”

 This time Sherlock stared. John enjoyed that. “I haven’t seen those, I was joking. So, we sit tight and wait for Billy. How are we going to fill all that time, I wonder.” John pushed his phone onto the bedside chest of drawers. Greene had a taste for antiques that must have been collected over years, selected from the major auction houses of London, and he had a penchant for heavy, rich fabrics. The carpet of maroon and cream, lay thick underfoot.

 Sherlock treated John to a suggestive lick of his lips. “I rather hoped you had ideas.”

 John smiled, his head tilted to the side, aware of the music, the heavy bass notes booming up from a downstairs room signalling the party had really got underway. “Even with this noise you’ll have to be quiet, you know.”

 “Or you will have to be.” Sherlock rumbled seductively, his fingers busy on the buttons of John’s jacket. A live current forged its way down John’s spine with arrow precision terminating at his cock.

 “How about you take your clothes off for me.” John growled. Sherlock, approving, stood and walked to the chair, taking off his jacket with a calculated flair that a conscientious striptease artist might be proud of.

 John inched up the bed stacking the pillows behind his back and threw his shoes and socks off as Sherlock disposed of his.

 “Have you deduced that I’ve got an urgent desire to ravish you senseless.” John asked the rhetorical question. That made Sherlock hurry up and divest himself off his shirt and trousers, draping them over the chair. John was surprised that the furniture wasn’t of the kind down in the playroom as he resisted palming his crotch. “Did you bring lube with you?”

 “It’s in my case.” Sherlock’s hand went to his case on the floor by the chair, found the small, black canister and waved it in the air like a trophy.

 “Either I’m going to have to close the curtains before everyone gets a good look at you not wearing your ridiculously expensive underwear or you’ll have to get your sexy little arse over here.” John teased.

 Sherlock delved into his case and with a clink produced his set of handcuffs dangling them with the keys in the lock. “Not fluffy.”

 “I will use them if I have to.” John growled in anticipation. He unbuttoned his shirt and rolled off the bed to look over the ethereal beauty of the man he adored. Sherlock crossed the room like a predatory animal and had John locked down with a gaze that smouldered. That magic of mutual want emerged again as Sherlock’s boxers slithered down over his erection.

 John felt confident. He could rarely win if there was logic involved but he had a secret weapon at his disposal. He stopped in front of Sherlock looking into his eyes, really looking at every shard of colour nested in the aquamarine gazing back at him. His eyes were the epitome of Sherlock himself, complicated and clear, fine, intelligent, as cool in the sea blue-green as his logic and as warm in his heart as the gold and hazel. _Complete idiot in love with you_. 

 Sherlock’s eyes closed for a moment and his erection twitched as he dropped the handcuffs onto the bed, tossing the keys on top. John tracked his fingers across the neatly trimmed patch of hair around Sherlock’s beautifully proportioned cock. Sherlock opened his stance and the deluxe canister of lube rocked on the top of the chest of drawers as he let go of it.

 “I want to know all your fantasies, John. I want to know you have been thinking of me when I was thinking of you.”

 “In a bit.” John needed to shut that great brain down. His hand squeezed Sherlock’s arse and his other wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock quivered, closed his eyes and withdrew his hips to pull his length through John’s fist. John bent his head and touched the head of the Sherlock’s cock with his tongue.

 Sherlock jumped and clutched John’s shoulders hissing in a breath. “Oh, god.”

 John smiled a moment and steadied Sherlock, then John’s tongue circled the head as Sherlock stood rigid, digging his fingers into John’s shoulder. “Good?”

 “Yes, yes, it is.”

 John flicked his tongue around the frenulum and licked a stripe down to his hand then lathed Sherlock’s length up to the head. Sherlock gasped and wriggled. John hummed and licked and swirled his tongue around the head until Sherlock stiffened.

 “That’s…John, you are amazing.”

 “You are.” John lisped around the hot, wet frenulum.

 “Aaaghh.” Sherlock gasped as John took Sherlock into his mouth and sucked. “Oh, shit.”

 John grinned and slackened off before sucking again then flicking his tongue and swirling it around Sherlock’s sensitive parts, grasping Sherlock’s sweet arse until his back ached for him to stand up. He kissed the hot, wet eye before standing upright and Sherlock pulled him into passionate kisses, breathing raggedly. John fought off his trousers with Sherlock pulling them off with him until it was Sherlock stripping him and John collapsed sideways onto the bed with Sherlock half on top of him already planting kisses on the sweet spot on John’s neck.

 “I want to do everything all at once.” Sherlock mumbled.

 “Yeah, me too. It’ll calm down and we can…” John faltered as Sherlock turned his attention to John’s nipples. “That, yes. Just like that.”

 “Can what?” Sherlock asked planting kisses down the trail of hair running down from John’s navel.

 “Can take time.”

 “I’m going too fast?”

 “No, no, I want to do everything all at once as well. Can’t uuhh,” John stuttered as Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his aching member, “can’t get enough of you. Waited too long.”

 “I feel the same.” Sherlock admitted.

 John smiled weakly. “Desperate.”

 “Desperate. I want to be inside you. I think. I’m not sure.”

 “I want to be held down and fucked by you. Or do that to you”

 “That was your fantasy?”

 “Yes.”

 “I don’t think I trust myself not to get carried away yet.” Sherlock’s voice, salacious with a rough quality sent ripples of pain-pleasure through John.

John pushed his bottom into the bed and thrust himself up into Sherlock’s hand. “I trust you, though.”

 “I want you to be inside me and to fuck you equally. I mean both at once. I don’t know what I mean.” Sherlock rambled.

 “Yeah.” John laughed.

 “It isn’t funny. I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. It’s very confusing. You turn me on and my hard drive goes into sleep mode.”

 “Good.” John was almost tearful with how much he loved Sherlock and how happy he felt at being loved by him.

 “That doesn’t make sense but I trust you implicitly on this. John, you said I had to tell you if it hurt. You could stop me if I get carried away and play too rough. They use safewords. We could.”

 “I can’t think of one. No, wait. Ashton. I’d remember that.”

 “I love you, John.”

 “I love you too.”

 “Actually, I trust myself now.”


	24. Going in Deep.

Sherlock now understood John’s impulses at a visceral level far removed from reason. He understood that John enjoyed sensations and he enjoyed the thought of those sensations. John had gone still, soaking up the attention of Sherlock’s tongue licking the salty skin of his belly. Soft skin over hard muscle, a beautiful contrast like the essence of John himself. True solidity of the man overlayed by a gentle surface. John seemed breakable as if accepting Sherlock inside his tight groove would cleave him. And Sherlock found he didn’t want to be in there, at least not now. He wanted to preserve that whole complete John. Preserve that mystery for thinking about.

 John’s erection, as purple as the hazy brilliance of a wet London night sky, within reach of Sherlock’s willing mouth, tempted him to taste the shiny exquisitely formed curve. Looking up from curling his tongue under the ridge he saw, as John groaned, how John had buried his face under one arm extended over his head. The other was by his side palm up, his fingers curled up naturally, spread like petals. Sherlock bathed the throbbing length with a wet tongue and swollen lips. Never had John seemed more John. Never had Sherlock felt more Sherlock as John made those remarkably warm sounds with soft inhalations like the sound of wind in trees in Russell Square.

 “I thought about this a lot.” Sherlock had thought about how soft the hair was in John’s triangle and how John’s skin was a honey shade and how he wanted John to be next to him every morning he woke up. He let John’s member languish in his large, slender hand as he reached for the expensive lubricant, only letting go to dribble the luxuriantly silky liquid onto his fingers and palm. “Thinking how hot you would look. John. How hard you would make me. How I want you in my life.” John’s hand flapped, about to reach to pull Sherlock over John. Sherlock saw the conflict there between taking him and John giving himself.

 “All open for me.” Sherlock murmured in genuine awe of John giving himself to him. “Very fuckable too.” John spread his thighs wider at the compliments. Sherlock spread the lube between John’s bum cheeks, smoothing it in with his thumbs, captivated by John’s balls covered lightly with fine blond hair. He watched John’s bum rise thrusting himself up with carved thighs and sink as John pushed into the bed.

_Perhaps less of the sentiment and more of the raw feelings_. “How I want to touch you.” His finger circled the little spot that promised tight heat and John’s breathing stopped. He pressed with the lightest touch until the muscle relaxed and yielded. His finger glided in causing his own breathing to falter. “Tight and hot.” He thought out loud. John clenched around his finger for a moment and then relaxed. Sherlock suddenly felt violence surge through him like a wave. Fire burned him while John moaned quietly, pushing back on Sherlock’s slender finger for a minute or two. An impossibly tight space.

Sherlock groaned with need and want and awe that John wanted him. Wanted. Him. Not just wanted him for the thrill of chasing criminals, not just for his deductive acumen, not just for his brain. Wanted all of him, and loved him, loved him when he was at fault and failed. John loved all of him. Sherlock wanted to compose a violin piece to commemorate all the sweet noises that John made at the touch of his lips and tongue, his fingers and the slide of his erection against John’s skin. _So beautiful, John_. “You’re mine too.” He whispered hoarsely rocking and gyrating his hips slowly. “The voice in my head, the heart in my life.”

 John squeaked and raised himself upward. Sherlock breathed, remembered how John had trusted him by revealing his desire. His brain suddenly lit up with a vague intuition that John was struggling not to take control. “What do you want? You want me. You want to drive yourself into me, hear me cry out, hear me say please? You want to hear me say yes, say no, say I want you.”

He covered John with his body, grasping John’s wrist, violently forcing it over John’s head, trapping John’s erection next to his own. Pushing John’s thighs wider apart with his thighs.

“I do not. Want. You. I must. Have. You.” Sherlock rutted with fierce, purposeful thrusts between his words

John squirmed and his arm resisted, the veins standing out proud over his bicep and forearm. Sherlock clamped his hand tighter around John’s wrist pushing himself onto John. John’s other hand left his face, it hovered at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock understood the gesture and grabbed John’s hand away from his neck, pushing John’s arm straight. John was a deceptively strong man but holding back. Sherlock didn’t want John to hold back at all and used his own, not inconsiderable strength to jam John’s arm down to the mattress, forcing John’s hands together. The pressure on his cock doubled as he pushed forward, it slid and rasped against John’s, edges catching edges.

“Do you want me to fuck you, John.”

John gasped, straining upward, opening his eyes revealing the darkest navy and sapphire blue colours of arousal. Sherlock pressed back fiercely and almost lost his mind at the sensation. John fought back. “I’ll prove how I want you.” Sherlock growled at the depth of his voice, taking up the challenge afresh, jamming John’s wrists into one hand, bearing down savagely, aware of how the back of John’s hands dented the mattress. The finger and thumb of his other hand rubbed and gently squeezed John's nipple. He squeezed until John whimpered in pain.

John’s eyes closed as his lips parted, Sherlock using his advantage of height and long arms to pin John in place. Grinding his hips into John, pushing their length’s together into soft flesh over abdominal muscle. He understood how it cost John to be gentle with him when the blood was up and he was fuelled by adrenaline. Wonderful, wonderful John for whom he could make this feel dangerous and hard without harming him. How wonderful that John demanded that Sherlock let go and be himself. All Sherlock could do was make it feel dangerous and vicious and heartless and feed John the highest of highs of being overwhelmed as John gasped and struggled and yielded.

Sherlock’s mouth fell on John’s neck without tenderness, sucking in a chunk of muscle above John’s clavicle, letting it out until he could fasten his teeth in. John seemed to turn to jelly under his body almost sobbing in breaths. There would be a mark. Marking John as Sherlock’s lover. He increased the pressure until John whimpered and rammed his hips down groaning and throwing his head back extracting sensation for himself aware that John was active, loving this, free, driving him to exertion.

Sherlock dropped his head to John’s, forehead touching forehead, inhaling and exhaling each other’s breath, panting. He needed to taste John’s neck again and nuzzled under his chin, pushing John’s head back, exposing his throat, nibbling. John groaned and Sherlock felt the rumble in his own chest and under his lips.

John surprised him with the force his hips rose. Sherlock responded by ramming John’s body down again, rocking, rutting until John’s nipples demanded sucking and nipping. John spasmed and drew in a loud breath then he felt John hard and substantial under himself and John came, his chest heaving, with a hoarse expletive. Sherlock was, himself, tight and aching and slammed his hips in again. The world’s lights went out in front of his eyes, flickers of light danced like moving stars in a purple sky and his semen rushed out. John groaned loudly. They jerked together until Sherlock’s strength ebbed suddenly.

“You make me feel so much.” Sherlock sobbed. John’s face had cleared from the pained lines to a relaxed softness, sheened with sweat. The sweat trickled own Sherlock’s back and a drop fell on John’s shoulder as Sherlock drew his arms in to rest on his elbows. Just needing to look at John for a moment before he buried his nose into John’s neck. Johns arms folded over his back and his palms stroked soothingly, gratefully, lovingly.

They stayed silent, breathless, coming back down from a high plane. And Sherlock eased himself to John’s side, enraptured. John was smiling and could barely lift his head. Sherlock agreed the weight of his own head was too much to hold up and he flopped. His arm, like lead responded slowly to rest over John’s ribcage, his fingers idly against John’s far nipple, still raised up like a tiny mountain on a round volcanic island on a sea on an ancient map. John had long been Sherlock’s Vitruvian man, the ideal body, his world in miniature.

There were no words that needed to pass between their parted lips, they had spoken with their hearts. Until the need to express a thought crept back.

“I’ve marked you.” Sherlock ventured to say quietly.

“You didn’t hurt me.” John’s hand fastened over Sherlock’s wrist squeezing in a reassuring way.

“I bruised your wrist.” Sherlock called John out on telling a lie.

John smiled with bright blue eyes twinkling. Sherlock tried not to think about the secretions of the lacrimal gland causing the sapphire gleam of happiness in John’s eyes. “You struggling, made me want to fuck you harder.”

“Oh, fuck, yes.” John exclaimed, grinning, his eyes closed.

Convinced that John was truly contented he climbed off the bed and wiped John with his underpants. John laughed, mouth open, showing white teeth and he flapped weakly at the attention. Sherlock cleaned himself up then as John wriggled under the rumpled quilt.

His mind was turning back to the reason they were at Greene’s overblown Gothic Victorian heap as Sherlock moved to the window and peered out.

“That would have been quite a show for our host, don’t you think?” Sherlock surmised.

 

***

 John nodded his agreement. He was glad that Greene wasn’t to be treated to the show of Sherlock finding his way in their relationship. “Hot as hell.”

 “I said we were going in deep. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind at the time.” Sherlock purred. Sherlock stood like a work of fine art at the window. His great mind evidently on the case again. A distant look about him as if he isn’t in this room except in body.

 There was no choir of angels fluttering and creating a soft susurration on silvered wings, no sweet, heart-rendingly beautiful orchestral music played but the moment richly deserved them in John’s estimation. Sherlock stood, unselfconsciously, in the nude, to the side of the bedroom window, looking out across the lawn, picked out in the dawn light and half-held in shadows. John’s breath caught in his throat.

 A pale, golden glow sharpened Sherlock’s cheekbones. His eyes, now pale blue-grey, were no less alluring than when they shone clear and aquamarine with gold shards. He resembled a figure from an oil painting by some master with a vision of sensual perfection. Above the soft, dark curls in disarray, tousled strands formed a warm auburn halo. Shadows concealed part of Sherlock’s long neck, throat and his shoulder, an expanse of silky skin made for pressing lips to.

 The elegant, sloping line of Sherlock’s shoulders swelled into strong arm muscles undulating and narrowing to slender wrists. Hands dusted with fine, fair hair led to fingers that were improbably delicate in touch as well as capable of bruising John’s wrist. That strong tapering line from Sherlock’s broad chest to a slender waist was still there, perhaps now a little softer around the hip bones than when they had met. John scarcely took breath, openly enjoying the sight of Sherlock’s lean, muscular loins, and, what amazed him, was that surprisingly small, rounded derriere.

 All that John could do was prop himself up in the warm bed and drink in the face and body of the man he loved and who loved him so expansively. Sherlock looked so much like a grubby angel, perfect and flawed, heavenly and very human at the same time, that John’s eyes misted with water. He would laugh out loud at himself if he had to explain himself as Sherlock turned towards him, all fluid movement with natural, breath-stealing grace.

“John, you are an incurable romantic.” Sherlock said, observing the wet sparkle in John’s eyes.

 “Are you coming back to bed?”

 “I’ll sit for a while, I think. I might keep you awake.”

 “You’re thinking.”

 “Yes.”

 John nodded and made himself comfortable under the covers breathing in the familiar aftershave and shampoo and the aroma of sex that was good, satisfying and made him feel sleepy.


	25. Chapter 25

John woke and groped dozily to feel Sherlock’s body. The bed was cold on his lover’s side and empty as he reached out to cuddle and take in more of the man who was everything to him. He sat up rubbing his face aware that he needed a shave and Sherlock must have gone to find a bathroom. The time was gone six. Twenty minutes passed as he dressed and then he was concerned that Sherlock was quite stupid enough to have left him sleeping to go off on his own. “You cock!”

 He had a perfect excuse to wander around Greene’s house looking for Sherlock who was his bed partner as well as the actor he was supposed to be assistant to. Sherlock, on the other hand had no reason except to be looking for evidence. Possibly Greene’s study might be where Sherlock had gone, then again John could see no reason to abandon Plan A. To be on the safe side he tucked his gun into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and set off down the stairs. The house was quiet enough to hear quick, unguarded footsteps coming along the corridor. John quietly concealed himself behind the door of the dining room on his right. He planned, if discovered, to say that Sherlock enjoyed a game in which he would be discovered by a gun-toting intruder. Greene would actually buy that, John thought, Greene being into kinky things. He had time to absorb the fact that he was actually a lot kinkier than he had imagined he was because Sherlock had looked stunningly sexy in the shower at the cottage. And Sherlock, well, he was Sherlock and he probably wouldn’t think it was at all kinky.

 John disciplined his breathing into almost silence as the fall of shoe-leather grew louder and closer then passed by. Poking his head out of the door a tiny way he saw that Greene’s minder had hurried by flicking the lights on. John’s stomach lurched as his heart went onto quick time. The party, had advanced into the small hours, the whips and chains lot who had to have stayed fairly sober would be shagged out literally, he hoped, the boozers who had polished off a lot of champagne, a huge amount, judging by the number of empty bottles in the dining room, had to be sleeping it all off still. Nobody could be expected to be up yet. It was safe. The sort of safety that had his pule racing and sent adrenaline coursing through his alert body. He had to admit that making love to Sherlock was infinitely better, am unsurpassed high that made him feel light-headed. It also made him feel charitable and less inclined to lose his temper with the rogue who had sloped off to do god only knew what on his own. It didn’t lessen his fear for Sherlock’s safety though. Considering that Sherlock had mentioned that Greene made his, probably disgusting, recordings in the playroom John edged his way into the corridor. Sticking close to the wall out of soldierly habit he moved stealthily along to the stairs leading down to the den. Greene’s voice, loud and unmistakeable travelled up to his ears.

“I should have known you were an addict. Should have known just looking at you.”

A faint whimper answered.

“Fucking useless! I’ve sent for him!”

John knew he could be wrong, that was Greene ranting but if it wasn’t Sherlock in there he needed an excuse to barge in. Silence prevailed. John took the steps nonchalantly.

 “The door was open”. John halted seeing Greene dressed in a black, Victorian frockcoat and trousers. Greene almost fell on him.

 “Doctor Hill, thank goodness.”

John’s gaze passed to a spare figure laid on the floor. _Christ on a bike!_ John’s jaw clamped shut from astounded slackness. The level of his discomfort and horror compounded by fears for Sherlock’s safety robbed him of speech for several moments. He stared at Sherlock slumped with only his head off the floor. Sherlock in handcuffs wearing a dress. Not a dress, a black corset laced up over a red velvet gown hauled up above his backside clothed in cream silk knickers and his legs encased in beige stockings with a red and black garter decorated with a large red silk flower. It was a grotesque, mocking travesty of the female sex.

“He passed out. Where’s bloody Myers.”

“John. I’m only playing.” Sherlock whined mournfully. “Don’t be angry. You said I had to apologise to Mr Greene.”

“I sent my man to fetch you.” Greene fumed.

John ignored Greene, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. In less than four seconds John’s emotions had turned from shock to confused anger and ice-cold calm fury. “What’s going on?”

“I’m apologising to Mr Greene.” Sherlock began crying, looking as if he was bravely holding back tears from rolling down his cheeks.

_I’m only playing_ \- _That’s acting and a half. That’s amazing._ John schooled his face to stern enquiry _._ “This is you apologising?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, John. You were so angry with me last night. I only wanted to prove I was sorry. Mr Greene’s videoing it all for you to see.”

John swore internally that heads were going to roll. Sherlock had turned himself into bait to crack the case. He thought he had made it abundantly clear to Sherlock that he didn’t like him getting into dangerous situations alone. Harry’s words shouted in between his ears _“He’s an adult”_ Harry was right. John knew he was behaving unreasonably. Sherlock had shown him his war wounds, the scars, to prove that he was capable of withstanding torture to break Moriarty’s web.

“No, I didn’t see Myers.” John replied tersely.

“Am I a pretty lady now?” Sherlock smirked faintly.

"You look like a whore." John said, flatly.

“Yes, and isn’t she just the prettiest, dirtiest, little whore, Doctor?” Greene didn't catch John's tone or ignored it, too interested in continuing whatever activity he was engaged in.

John smirked. “You haven’t seen him at home. He’d surprise you.”

“I wish I could.” Greene said, wistfully sighing. “I would love to know what really frightens him. I really do. I think I just tied the corset too tight. It wasn’t the effect I was after at all. I leave all of that to Ruby.”

“Must have blacked out.” Sherlock said indistinctly.

John went to Sherlock’s head and knelt down beside him with an eye out on Greene as Myers jogged down the stone steps.

“Sorry, boss.” Myers stepped in and stopped short on seeing the frozen tableau.

“Ashton?” John asked, slapping Sherlock face lightly with his fingertips as Sherlock’s eyes rolled again. John could see that the corset was tight, constricting Sherlock’s diaphragm preventing him from breathing properly, restricting him to shallow inhalations in his chest. The device pushed Sherlock’s chest muscles up into cleavage under a gauzy cutaway in the dress but Sherlock had room to breathe, if not comfortably. “Can you hear me.”

 “Well, we’ll continue.” Greene made a gesture with his fingers to his minder to flit. Myers obediently strode to the bank of recording equipment and bent over the camera on the tripod.

 Sherlock’s head lolled in John’s hand “Merry Christmas, John.” He said weakly, indicating Myers with his manacled hands, clasped together as if holding a gun.

John quietly reached in his inner pocket for the P226 and stood suddenly “Happy New Year!” he wheeled towards Myers with his gun levelled.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, nimbly taking a long stride towards Greene.

“Don’t.” John advised Myers.

Sherlock grabbed Green from behind as he turned.

John saw Myers glancing at the open door calculating his chances.

Greene stumbled backwards as Sherlock threw his arms over the man’s head. Sherlock took a sharp elbow to his liver and twisted trying to pull Greene off balance. Greene fought back, struggling to pull Sherlock’s stranglehold off his neck. Sherlock grunted with effort to thrust a bony, strong forearm under the man’s throat. Greene kicked out viciously hitting the shin bone.

The two men traded strength and grunts of exertion to gain the upper hand as Sherlock’s hampered breathing became laboured.

 John tilted his head to fetch Myers out from behind his cover of cameras and the table.

Myers hesitated and took his chance to hurl the smaller camera from the table at John. It missed John and crashed to the floor at his feet splintering loudly into pieces. The lens rolled crazily towards Sherlock and Greene. Out of the corner of his eye John saw Green, trapped, puce and choking for breath with Sherlock’s forearm twisting fiercely up under Greene’s Adams apple, Sherlock’s face had set in a triumphant rictus of anger, his teeth bared and his eyes wide.

 “Move and I will kill you.” John smiled dangerously at Myers.

“Gun in holster. He’s obviously got a small one.” Sherlock supplied in a voice dripping with acidic sarcasm.

Myers’s nostrils flared. John guessed that Myers had annoyed Sherlock and he didn’t want to dwell on the particulars considering that Sherlock had been filmed in such ridiculous attire. The bloody dress and the way it had been draped over Sherlock’s rear, made the blood pound in his ears. He felt fury rise in his veins again too at what Greene had put Kitty through.

“Hands behind your head” John ordered the minder.

Myers clasped his hands behind his head.

“Out here.”

Myers took the wisest option open to him and edged out slowly.

“I hate to be predictable, but, on your knees.”

“Handcuff keys.” Sherlock demanded of Greene.

“Pocket. I’ve done nothing wrong you weren’t forced, you consented. It’s all on there.”

John drew in a deep breath about to confront Greene about the hundred or more victims like Kitty who had been coerced and blackmailed in a most cruel way when Sherlock interrupted. “John, if you could kindly disarm Mr Myers here. Mr Greene’s aftershave is atrocious.”

John squashed down his emotions and set the business end of the gun barrel on the back of the employee’s neck, pulling the man’s jacket back and down his arms. With a smile he reached to the holster and withdrew the minder’s gun.

“Mr Myers, where are the digital recordings located, all of your employer’s records, in fact.” Sherlock demanded coolly.

Myers shook his head. “Please don’t tempt John to extract the information from you, he can break every bone in your body while naming them. In Latin.”

John suppressed a smile.

“In Mr Greene’s study.”

“Good boy.” Sherlock cooed as he walked Greene to John and let him loose. John handed the minder’s gun to Sherlock who let Greene guess that he wanted the keys to the handcuffs. Greene fussed around his neck rubbing the sore spots for a few moments but gave up the keys when Sherlock took a threatening step with his hand drawn back to pistol-whip him.

“Thank you.” Sherlock accepted the keys and freed his hands. “How are your rope skills? Not so hot, I imagine. John, answer the door.”

“That’ll be my housekeeper. I think, gentlemen, that time has run out for you to invade my privacy and abuse my generosity.” Greene leered in triumph.

“Sorry, wrong number, please dial again.” Sherlock’s retort caused the smile threatening to break out on John’s face to appear as he ran up the steps. The ornate front door vibrated dully at heavy, insistent pounding. “Police, open up!”

John’s eyes opened wide then creased at the corners as he found Greg on the doorstep. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, there’s been a report of a disturbance. The local force are tasked to stamp out burglary.” Greg tilted his head at the plain clothes man sitting in a car with his coat collar up against the cold air and the window wound down.

John peered past Greg’s ear. “Is that the local force?” He asked quietly out of hearing distance of a burly man with a buzz cut disguising early onset hair loss.

“He is, D.S. Kendal, like the place. He thinks we’re answering a call to a burglary. What’s new, has he cracked it?”

“It looks like it. Did he phone you?” John stepped aside and let Greg in, closing the door as Greg walked in tugging off his gloves.

“I acquired a couple of days holiday from nowhere,” Greg grinned. “courtesy of Mycroft, where is his lordship?”

“You probably won’t believe me.”

“Sher, er, Scott Ashton? I probably would.”

“It’s not a pretty sight. He’s got Brendan Greene and his minder in a dungeon.” John warned.

Greg beckoned the local sergeant to join them. “Big, old house like this, nothing’d surprise me.” “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” John grinned.

 “Any of the guests up yet? There was a party until five.” Greg surveyed the hall as they walked.

“I was asleep by then. Not a peep. Down here.” John led the way down the stone steps and pushed the door open. The minder was face down on the floor and Sherlock was looking supremely aloof and in charge.

Greg failed to conceal his astonishment at being confronted with an entirely unexpected sort of dungeon and Sherlock wearing a Victorian outfit. To his credit his eyes passed to the householder. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Mr Greene, I presume.”

“Thank goodness for that. These two men have trampled upon my hospitality as pearls cast before swine.”

Sherlock tutted. “God, if there was such a thing, has given you one face, and you make yourself another.”

“These men were invited as my guests, Inspector, and it is to my regret that my judgement of their character was sadly lacking, if you would escort them from my house, and you leave without troubling the Inspector, Mr Ashton, I’ll say no more of the destruction of my camera. I’m not a vindictive man.”

“There have been reports of burglaries in the area, Mr Greene, one of your guests reported a disturbance it might be best if I check the rooms for evidence of intrusion.”

Greene bridled. “I assure you there is no need to do so.”

“I would appreciate your cooperation, Mr Greene, we take forced entry very seriously, particularly when it concerns a man of your standing in the community.”

“I understand. Please accept my apology. It’s been an upsetting start to my day as you can imagine.” Greene cast an eye on Sherlock.

“It would speed things up if my colleague can take a statement from your household members while you give me the tour.”

“Of course, Myers, my personal assistant. Myers, you may get up now.”

“D.S. Kendal. It won’t take long.” The burly officer introduced himself as the minder scrambled to his feet and gave Ashton a nasty stare.

“Very wise. This way Inspector.” Greene displayed a mouth full of brilliant white teeth.

“You might ask about his gun licence.” Sherlock prompted.

“I assure you-” Greene began halted by Sherlock handing the minder’s weapon over to the sergeant. “Oh, the record’s stuck. Apparently. His study is where he keeps his sordid, little cache.”

“Cache of?” Greg fished for confirmation.

“Oh, material like this.” Sherlock produced the camera’s memory card from the camera's broken plastic ruins with an elegant twist of his wrist. “Recorded without informed consent. No doubt more, all sold, without the participant’s knowledge as pornography, and falsely distributed as legally produced DVD’s featuring Ruby Blackwood, dominatrix and the, ahem, actress, Cynthia Lush, both of whom are regular guests here judging by their familiarity with Mr Greene and their knowledge of the layout of the house. You will also find an illegally procured digital recording time-stamped yesterday of Mr Langdale Pike. Local member of the county council planning department. He's a guest here.”

“Who the devil are you!” Greene bellowed.

“Scott Ashton.” Sherlock replied. “And this is my partner, Doctor John Hill. I’m sure we were introduced. Inspector?”

John bounced on his toes and felt like punching the air as Greg informed Greene of his arrest and slapped handcuffs on the actor. Myers immediately capitulated volunteering to assist the sergeant with police enquiries.

“Your combination for your safe and any other passwords, keys or locking devices. We can obtain them,” Greg glanced at Sherlock, “but your assistance will be noted on the records.” Greg told Greene. Greene wavered on unsteady legs and wrote the information in Lestrade’s notebook as he leaned so heavily on the table that it rocked.

Greg wiped a hand down his face. “We’d better have a look, then.”

 Sherlock led the way, hitching the skirt up to walk, placing his left hand in the small of John’s back and treating him to a wink.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.” Greg said as he followed Sherlock along the corridor.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

“I got a nice hotel. All very swish.”

“In here.” Sherlock opened the door onto Greene’s study. John surveyed the walls hung with paintings of country maids, hoary swains herding cattle, a ballerina, a painting that was more an impression of a girl examining her shoes with her tutu framing her knickers, than a real dancer, and a striking drawing of two nude men standing against a wall fondling, one slender and angular, laid back in the arms of the other, it looked like the man was stroking the lover, leaning against him in the throes of orgasmic rapture.

Sherlock’s voice jogged John out of his contemplation of positions to sweetly torture Sherlock in. “John, if you could stop thinking so loudly and look for Kitty’s file we can go back to the cottage that much quicker.”

“Sorry, I was…yeah, sure.”

“Got it. It’s in alphabetical order here.” Greg examined a file bound in maroon leather and sat with a clump on a green velvet covered chair. He looked down at the shaky front legs and, turning back to the pages of photographic images, let out a low whistle. 

“Paperwork relating to sales here. Ah, this is interesting, it’s code, all we need is the code master document.” Sherlock piped up, his eyes flashing like the sun at John.

John hopped to Sherlock’s side. Putting his arm on Sherlock’s back without thinking he peered at the small notebook. “It’s words. Alphabetical order again.”

“Now, where would he keep such a secret document.” Sherlock detached himself and took up a position in the centre of the room, scanning it. He paused and retraced his steps, looking at the rug beneath his feet. “Not under the floorboards, there is something here, though.” He removed the rug with John as Greg shifted two chairs onto the bare boards. A rectangle of the boards had been cut out and replaced. “Always like my coat with me,” he huffed. “I need something to prise the boards up with, what does he use? Toasting fork. He doesn’t access it often.” He seized the decorative brass toasting fork from the hook at the side of the fireplace and jemmied up the board which creaked and popped out. He flung the board aside, then tugged the other boards out. A square tin box with handles sat in the dark hole on a board screwed to the floor joists. Sherlock tried to lift the box. Unsuccessful, he stood and stared at it, wiping his nose free of dust on the knuckle of his index finger.

John knelt and took over, causing a cloud of dust motes to swirl wildly up in the light of the lamp as he grabbed the box handles. The veins on his neck stood out with the effort of heaving the box up and Sherlock clenched his hands in sympathetic resonance as John pulled the prize up over the lip of the boards.

Greg tugged the box to open it and grunted with the exertion, the box barely shifting. “Gawd, what’s he got in it.” He looked up at Sherlock whose rapt attention was fixed on John who stood and shifted with embarrassment, his face screwed up at being the centre of attention.

The weight of the box was partly due to a strong box which John took to the desk to open, and two small oil paintings of beautiful women in substantial gilt frames. “Signed. T. Lodger. He likes his women in veils. Have to run these on the stolen art register.” Greg said.

As Sherlock rummaged in the mahogany desk drawers John opened the strong box. “Memory cards, there’s a sticky label on them, Sherlock, with names and dates.”

“Greene’s handwriting.” Sherlock confirmed.

“And we have the code book, John.” Sherlock announced turning with a big smile, basking in John’s approbation. He turned his face to Greg. “False back of a drawer, a very old trick in expensive antique desks. It had to be a desk with a false drawer because it doesn’t match the rest of the furniture, it all matches in our bedroom. And the other rooms.”

John studied his feet, blushing, hiding a smile, his hands thrust in his pockets aware of Greg’s scrutiny.

Sherlock took in an audible breath. “Yes. We’re having lots of. Dinners. Together. John and I.” He slipped his arm around John’s waist.

John imagined time stretched a second or two into minutes until Greg’s face split a broad smile.

“That’s good.” Greg nodded. “It’s about time you two sorted yourselves out. Look, you don’t need to be here now, if you want to, er, get off. Maybe put some clothes on first.”

Sherlock, looking down at the corset and frock, made an unreadbale face. "Not my colour." He turned and strode off.


	26. After all.

So, that is how Sherlock and I finally discovered we were each other’s other half. A year on being happy hasn’t softened him an iota. Things haven’t changed there at all. But two things did change. He can cook a truly delicious roast, and he does when he wants to. He does it with the skill of a chemist and the precision of a scientist. The other thing is he doesn’t like to choose what we do in the bedroom department. I had him pinned to an alley wall to find that out.

Angie Didcott-James was a fairly happy young woman with an elder sister Mariam. They lived at a huge old house with their stepfather who had a thing about collecting vintage cars. All was well until Mariam met Dave, a nice young man in the plumbing trade. 

Not long after the announcement of Mariam getting engaged to Dave, the stepfather brought the builders in to upgrade security and after a few days of the work he moved Mariam to a draughty old bedroom. Mariam told Angie the water pipes had made a funny noise not long before the ensuite shower stopped working.   
Angie came to see us and the girl was shaking and drip-white while sitting in front of our warm fire. She was terrified because her mother died in her arms one horrible night ten years before. Her mother, Julia, had whispered something to her about a sound like Peruvian pipes and a speckled band. Angie and Mariam had put it down to Julia being delirious, hearing noises that old houses make. Now Angie had heard the noise but couldn’t work out where it was from in the bedroom she was plagued by a feeling she couldn’t shake off that the house wasn’t safe. 

We went to the house, and with Sherlock having developed a real liking for shower sex I checked out the bathroom so I could tease him and say something about it being a big bath and if he solved this case fast I’d have him in our bath or shower as soon as we got home. You should see how his eyes widen and go as black as night when he knows he’s in for a treat. It’d make you shiver with anticipation. It does me. 

The bathroom was, however, where I discovered that the whistling sound was due to air going down a pipe behind a vent. Sherlock then said something about me being like a light bulb. He figured out that, like Julia, Mariam was being forced to take a bath instead of a shower. 

He suspected the stepfather of murdering his wife to get his hands on the trust fund set up for her girls and of preventing Dave the plumber fiancé from marrying Mariam in case Dave discovered the pipe, disguised as a vent in the bathroom, to pump in carbon monoxide from the garage when he left the car running into the room while his wife was taking a bath. 

We went on the hunt for a plumber with a speckly striped paint job on his van. The speckles on the diagonal band were really badly painted soap bubbles! The paint job had looked pretty crude in daylight but it looked even worse at night when the van was parked on the guy’s front garden. Sherlock called Lestrade and went in. The rat-faced little plumber panicked and ran out of his back door into an alley with Sherlock on his heels. 

I have to credit the plumber with being as fast on his feet as a rat leaving a sinking ship. That guy could run and the alley was a long one behind a row of old terrace houses with gardens behind. Still, we ended up with me shoving rat-face to the wall and keeping him there with one hand on his chest. Lestrade rescued Rat face and carted him away in handcuffs while Sherlock stood a little way off in the dark keeping his coat wrapped around him.

I realised I had one thoroughly turned on consulting detective to deal with when I saw his face. There was this look of pure hunger in his eyes and a full, open softness about his lips that gave me an instant twitch below my belt. “What are you keeping from me?” I asked, being stern.

“I…I’m not keeping anything from you.” Sherlock said.

“I think you are.” I advanced on him. He backed away provocatively. “I know you are.” I said when Sherlock’s back was right up against the wall. The glint on the glass of a greenhouse shimmered silver-white, his face was as pale as the finest white marble. He looked devastatingly handsome, in shadow with his eyes gleaming. Mesmerising. 

“You kept him there with one hand.” 

“Yeah.” I reached up to take a kiss, he bent his head to oblige and I let him follow my lips down. I should say I made him reach down, keeping the prize out of reach while I slipped my hands around his slender wrists and pressed them against the brick wall. His fluttering eyelashes said a lot. “You like that.”

“Yesss.”

“I like you like this, hot and flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.” He denied, lying badly.

And that’s how we are. In the silent moonlight with the energy of rising passion overtaking me. 

I nudge his foot with mine and his legs open wider than shoulder width apart. It brings him down more to level with my lips. God, he can be so malleable, even submissive. When he’s not desperately trying to work himself against me. When he’s desperate to come. While I’ve been learning him, and he’s been learning me, that’s when he starts getting bossy. When I get him just right though he submits without thinking anymore. He doesn’t take. He gives. My god, how he gives.

My foot nudges his other foot out without resistance. He waits. I hook my ankle around his, draw his foot forward and then he gets a small kiss, open-mouthed. So beautifully strung up with excitement that he quivers, so beautifully submissive that he responds as I draw his other foot forward. He bends his knees to press his back against the wall and he is where I want him. The only way he can get out of this is to shove his hands back and push himself off the wall. I know he won’t but that’s not how to handle him at this pivotal moment.

I pull his wrist away from his waist and slide it up the wall. He must know when I move his other wrist to join the one above his head that he’s completely defenceless. His own weight pins his back to the wall and his feet to the ground. I’m above him so that to receive a kiss he has to wait for me to bestow it on his lips. His tongue slips wickedly over his sinful lips.

“What are you thinking about.” I ask. His wrists are so slender and compact that I get one hand around them both. He groans softly, a sound as smooth and rich as molten dark chocolate. He has a voice like sin itself. He doesn't answer.

“I’m not having you not answering me. I’m going to get us a cab and we’ll continue this conversation in my bedroom.” I say and slap my palm against his upper thigh. He jumps at the sting. He groaned very loudly. I swear it’s a wonder he didn’t fetch someone out of the house at the volume he groaned at. This has to go to the bedroom or there’ll be a phone call to the police from a house-owner reporting us for obscene acts in public.

-o-0-o

“John, you are going to kill me.” Sherlock says.

John thinks he might be the one who dies first. Sherlock is naked, face down on John’s bed. Sherlock’s hands are cuffed to the headboard. The consulting detective’s round, handsome rear invites slapping. John wants to make Sherlock beg. “You can have three requests.”

“Three.” Sherlock mumbled straining to get his rear closer to John standing by the side of the bed.

“Three. If you say stop, I’m not going to stop. You can say no, I won’t stop. Only if you say your safe word I’ll stop.” John warns. "What were you thinking about before. Did you think about being pinned against that dark London alley wall while I fucked your mouth?"

Yes, safeword I’ll use it if I have to.” Sherlock moaned and squirmed down against the bedcover.

“I can’t see anything with you laid on it. Rubbing yourself. Kneel up.”

Sherlock shuffled up quickly to kneel, burying his face to the pillow, splaying his knees, exposing his ball-sack and his erection jutting out from the springy, dark thatch.  
“Or were you thinking about being spanked. Me slapping your thighs. Your cock hard and straining against your zip.”

“Nng.”

“Or bending over the table. You look so good like that, Sherlock, your milky-white arse red with my handprints.”

“Yes, yes, please.” Sherlock is panting hard, his shoulders moving with each breath, his chest heaving. 

John leans over and spends a minute to lick and graze his teeth over Sherlock’s shoulder blades. His tongue meanders down Sherlock’s vertebrae until the journey is uphill, Sherlock’s spine arched like a cat’s. Soon Sherlock undulates as the touch becomes leisurely kisses. He moves like a flower in the breeze, his head tossing and his body angling to enjoy John’s hands flowing over the acre of bare skin. John knows how to trail his fingers, where to stroke, how gently, how quickly, how slowly. A lullaby until Sherlock is so relaxed that a fingertip can move him. Then John prepares to slap Sherlock’s upper thigh on the line he sits upon.

On the first gentle slap Sherlock hisses in a thankful breath and his spine dips into a curve, his head snapped back with triumph. John loves him enough to take what he wants when John wants it. The second slap, no less soft lingers longer on Sherlock’s thigh. The hand sweeps over Sherlock’s arse. Slap again a little higher. The detective’s head drops to the pillow his arse pushed out and up. It begs for the next slap.

“This what you want?” John asks, knowing the answer.

Sherlock groans.

“More?” John persists in his questioning.

“Yes. Yes.” Almost a little sob at the end.

Slap follows slap around Sherlock’s perfect globes until they are flushed a little pink. John’s palm tingles pink and warm too. On a walk in the Lake District, down by the river they had walked a few lazy, as carefree-as-if-on-holiday times, Sherlock found a tree branch so perfectly made that he took it back to the cottage. He scraped the wood silky smooth. He took it home to 221B and cut soft leather to wind around the thick stem. It is one of Sherlock’s favourite toys. This he laid at the foot of the bed. He fetched ice cubes too, and these are not plain water cubes, these are Gewürztraminer ice cubes. Because John knew something unsuspected in the holiday cottage. 

John remembers Sherlock’s shocked delighted face when he found that white wine on sexually heated and well-used parts stings pleasantly. It fades to a tingle. John always wants to know what something might feel like for Sherlock. Sherlock hated using it on John but John demanded he did so he would know what it felt like, how to use it expertly. The stick, he knows, produces a thud that sends a ripple of vibrations through the nerves from back to front. Up the cock, down the balls, right through the body. It revs Sherlock up for a blindingly strong orgasm when John chooses to release him from the sweet, agonizingly good pain of deferred pleasure. John knows what Sherlock’s body cries out for as he quivers with anticipation. That’s a good hard tap in a steady rhythm. It feels like a lullaby in a light rhythmical tap just bouncing off Sherlock’s bottom on the sweet spot. 

Warmed up Sherlock raises his rear and the muscles tighten. Time to tap, tap, tap. In twenty taps Sherlock sighs and drops his bum. John goes back to stroking and caressing sweetly until Sherlock is restive and presents his rear begging for more taps. Twenty firmer strokes tapping Sherlock up another level. Caress and move to stroking Sherlock’s legs and thighs, a little time teasing his erection and then twenty strokes of the stick harder than the last set. Sherlock drops his abdomen to the mattress, breathing harder and John breaks the pattern, five hard, miss a beat, three soft and miss two beats the a very firm lash and three soft. Sherlock’s rear strains for the sensation as his back arches, he can’t help himself pleading for more.

“Yes?”

“Yes, John, yes. Please more. Hard.” Sherlock’s first request.

So, John enjoys tapping quite lightly and repeats a random pattern of missing beats and surprise softness and an unpredictable firm wallop here and there. He screws Sherlock up another level until the pale pink has turned pink then another level when the pink has turned pale red and the red is a round patch on both globes. Here is where a special ice cube cools and tingles over the hot flesh at the same time. Sherlock gasps and squirms so delightfully that John falls in love all over again at the wonder of being wanted so very much by this man who could have chosen anyone.

Sherlock requests John in his mouth and is released from the handcuffs. He spares no amount of attention on John’s pleasure. John comes, Sherlock swallows the first spurt and swallows again licking his lips. Sherlock offers the thick leather-covered cane. He looks a picture of debauchery, his hair wildly mussed up, his full lips brighter pink, the dip of the cupid’s bow and his septum damp, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glistening. And John ignores the request for the moment because this is what Sherlock likes. He likes not to choose. John can do what he wants. Sherlock likes that. John loves that. John wonders if it is possible to die from affection, could you perish with the intensity of love being given and taken. 

His love taps begin again and twenty are as many as Sherlock can stand without a break to breathe and let the chemicals flow. When it gets too much almost on one side of his bum Sherlock wriggles. John knows to ease off the pace but not the power. Sherlock gets agitated caught on the cusp of plain being pleasure and pleasure being pain. Time for wine ice cubes. Sherlock’s brain converts the sensations into pleasure. He absorbs each strike, hangs there and is ready, wanting another set. Taps and missed beats, Sherlock sinks onto his belly lapping up the attention, the swell building. Enough and Sherlock’s cock grinds against the bedcover. Not enough sensation and he scrambles hastily to his knees, his cock juts, leaking silver strands thrusting up and out his rear for John to own however he wants.

John nearly dies of love and admiration inside their little bubble. Nothing else exists outside the bubble, not moonlight bathing the bed with a silvery blue light, not people, not time even. John is dimly aware of his own breathing and hyper-aware of every breath that Sherlock takes, every sound, each movement in a dance between them. John taps hard enough to feel like he is exerting himself. More ice that makes Sherlock gasp and produce unintelligible sounds, still responding. 

“Please.” Sherlock requests. “More.” 

John gauges that Sherlock is on the edge, despite his request and gives him a break. The sound from Sherlock is more pained than pretty, more a howl of bereft objection to the break than to not getting what he needs. Sherlock knows to be patient and he might get what he wants but the thing he wants most is not to stop John from having what he wants. A happy John means a happy Sherlock.

John cracks open the lube and slathers it on Sherlock quickly and fingers Sherlock open with movements refined over time and sure in deftly being able to take Sherlock apart. Unsafe to finger Sherlock’s prostate right now, too close to the edge of coming and not up to his pain limit. More taps and Sherlock floats steadily up to the adrenaline high where a safe-word might be a vague idea scattered by a breeze. John watches carefully. He makes Sherlock hold the handcuffs over the edge of the bed. Sherlock holds the rail too. His knuckles whiten and he is sheened with sweat. 

The ‘More’ pleaded for is a quick, not very hard strike but enough that Sherlock grits his teeth at the sting. Sherlock likes to see bruises for days and to feel them when he sits down the next day.

“Yes.” Sherlock confirms he’s good. 

Another. Slow and thuddy. John likes to give those, the vibrations push Sherlock toward orgasm.

“Please, John, I love you, please.”

Another and Sherlock almost breaks. 

John marvels at how Sherlock enjoys being pushed to his limits. John calls enough though and flips Sherlock over onto his back. Sherlock rushes to accept John inside himself. John tries to make Sherlock wait. Sherlock wants to be made to wait and loves and hates it at the same time. John wants to see Sherlock wait because Sherlock will feel he achieved something for John. He poises and as soon as Sherlock is still he thrusts home smoothly. The sound in John’s bedroom is all of Sherlock’s relief and gratitude and wild, desperate need and want. John folds over between Sherlock’s thighs and traps Sherlock’s erection, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist for leverage to gain them friction. It’s anyone’s guess whose heart beats the faster or who needs to come most. In a few strokes the angle, the heat, the need, the delay on the brink take them both shouting over the edge. Sherlock cries silent tears of happiness.

Mumbles and kisses. A tangle of limbs clutching each other. Mumbles and kisses until neither have the energy to move. John comes back down to earth faster and adores Sherlock’s wrecked, blissful expression. Sherlock drifts down like a small autumn leaf tilting and listing slowly. He crawls tight into John’s side, ankle over calf. Thighs melted. An arm draped, curls under John’s nose, Sherlock’s ear over John’s drumming heart. Sherlock soaks up the warmth and love and John wants to cry with happiness too.

“You okay?” John asks after a long time discovering how to breathe again. 

“Yes. You?” Sherlock replies when he can find his voice.

“Fantastic.” John murmurs quietly and kisses Sherlock’s crown.

“Yes.”

It makes John smile. “You’ll have some lovely bruises.”

“Yes?”

John laughs, quietly pulling Sherlock closer as if they could close a non-existent gap between them. Sherlock likes to see the marks and looks at them every day.   
“I think so.” John says with confidence.

“Good.” Sherlock replies. He squeezes John happily for a moment with the last of his strength. They are closer to sleep than being awake and they tunnel under the covers to cuddle again. In a minute Sherlock is a warm weight draped over John’s body, asleep, making light breathing sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was delayed in being completed. Life, you know. I hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. If you liked it please tell people about it. Thank you to those lovelies who have helped me to improve it with positive comments and also suggestions and also to those who told me what they didn't like. It's all good. It's all helpful to me.


End file.
